


Versus

by secondstar



Category: Football RPF, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sports, Bottom Derek Hale, Butt Plugs, Butt Slapping, Cock Rings, Coming Out, Coming Untouched, Cybersex, Derogatory Language, Double Penetration, First Time, Football | Soccer, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Injury, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rimming, Sex Toys, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 94,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age nineteen, Stiles Stilinski was the next big thing, according to <i>The Guardian</i>. It was surreal, not being able to turn on Sky Sports without hearing his name mentioned along with the names of players he grew up idolizing. Stiles couldn’t believe that this was his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [figure8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/gifts).



> Thank you to [Leni](http://haleinski.co.vu/) for the prompt! As a huge Liverpool fan, I couldn't say no to writing Derek and Stiles as football rivals! 
> 
> A major thanks to my betas, lauren, bk, beth, and mel! Seeing your comments for this fic has me very excited about its progress!
> 
> To those of you who aren't familiar with footie/soccer: hopefully I have written this in a way that minor explanations do not take away from the story, and that everything makes sense for you! If you have any questions at all, please feel free to [ask me!](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> date: please do not REPOST this fic anywhere else without my consent. Please do not put it on GoodReads that is a site for PUBLISHED works, not fic.
> 
> Something that I was *this* close to tagging but didn't is prejudice. Liverpool and ManUtd are major rivals. I am talking Yankees vs Red Sox (maybe worse!) rivalry here. There is judgement of other people based on what team they support, and if you are uncomfortable with that, and feel as though it should be tagged, let me know. 
> 
> This is my NANOWRIMO for this year, so expect this fic to be updated regularly! Sorry for the long note, and I hope you enjoy! (ps- the rating will go up)

When Stiles Stilinski thinks back on his childhood, he remembers always being outside with his friends kicking around a football. He remembers asking for a new kit every Christmas and birthday; he wanted them all, no matter what the team. He had Beckham’s from Manchester United, Zidane’s from Real Madrid, and Fowler’s from Liverpool. Back then, the crest on the kit didn’t matter. Back then, all he wanted was to play. 

Now, at age nineteen, he was the next big thing, according to _The Guardian_. It was surreal, not being able to turn on Sky Sports without hearing his name mentioned along with the names he grew up idolizing. ‘Stiles Stilinksi scores a brace against Sunderland, ensuring them another three points!’, ‘Stilinski, Liverpool’s number 24, scores against Manchester City this weekend, putting Liverpool at the top of the table for the fifth week in a row’, ‘Stilinski scored with an assist by Liverpool Captain Steven Gerrard yesterday...’. 

Stiles couldn’t believe that this was his life. In reality, he felt like he was still in the Academy, playing for the Under 21’s with the friends he grew up with. He started at the Liverpool Academy when he was ten, then had tryouts for different teams when he was fifteen. He ended up staying at Liverpool, even though he was also scouted for Newcastle and West Ham, because it felt right to remain at Liverpool. Now, he was in the starting eleven consistently. It happened a year ago, when Stiles was called up from the U-21’s to sit on the bench for a match. With Luis Suarez out on a ten-match ban again, along with Daniel Sturridge and Fabio Borini injured, that only left Philipe Countinho as a striker. Stiles was only supposed to warm the bench; instead, he made his debut in the 76th minute, then scored five minutes later, giving Liverpool the lead and gaining them three points for winning the match. 

That was then, though. Now, Stiles started regularly and was officially on the First Team and signed a new contract with Liverpool not even three months ago, making ten times as much as he had been before. It felt like the Twilight Zone, like he was living some other person’s life. So, when he was sitting at home, alone, minding his own business by watching Sky Sports on mute, his jaw dropped when he happened to watch the scroller at the bottom of the screen: ‘Stilinski to be called up for the England National Team’. 

“What the fuck?” Stiles said to himself just as his phone rang. He looked down at the ID, tensing when he saw that it was Brendan Rodgers, the Manager of Liverpool Football Club. Stiles let it ring one more time before he answered. 

“Stiles,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound unsure. 

“Stiles, it’s Brendan,” his manager said. “I am calling because I just got out of a meeting with Roy Hodgson.” Stiles gulped. Roy Hodgson was the manager of the England squad, and if they had a meeting together and Brendan was calling him then -- “I wanted to talk with you before I approved your call up during the next International Break.” Stiles’ heart was beating so fast and hard that he was almost positive that Brendan could hear it. He was going to be called up to play for his country, at age nineteen! It was practically unheard of, considering he wasn’t even on the England U-21 team and never had been. 

“Alright,” Stiles said as he licked his lips and waited for Brendan to continue. He fidgeted, his fingers drumming against the table in front of him as his eyes cast over the TV once more, his name still flashing across the stream. He was definitely living in a Twilight Zone. 

“I want you to think long and think hard about what I am about to ask you, Stilinski.” By using his last name, Brendan had Stiles’ full attention; Stiles knew that he meant business. He stopped moving, even held his breath before Brendan continued. “I want you to think about how many days you usually take to recover after a match, the strain it puts on your body, and if you really think that you could still perform to the best of your abilities if you play for England as well as Liverpool.” 

Stiles couldn’t help himself. He jumped into the air, pumping his fist in the air. He was being called up for real, it was really happening. Not only does he have a spot in the Liverpool starting eleven, but he would be playing for England as well as they geared up for the World Cup Qualifiers. Stiles had to stop jumping up and down in order to remain calm enough to answer his manager. It wasn’t a question for him, really. He would do it. He would play beside the likes of Wayne Rooney, Frank Lampard, and Joe Hart. Stiles cleared his throat, nodding his head as he attempted to look serious in hopes that it would transfer to the sound of his voice. 

“I think that I would be able to, sir.” Stiles was proud of himself, his voice didn’t break once and he swore he heard Brendan laugh. “I want to play for both.” 

“Thought as much. You’ll be getting a call from Roy within the hour. I’ll see you at training in the morning, don’t be late.” 

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said. Brendan hung up and Stiles was free to scream to his heart’s content. The first thing he did was text his best friend, Scott McCall, who also played on the Liverpool side. Instead of saying something coherent, Stiles typed out _aughskalgjaald;salksalgdssklda_ and hit send. He knew he’d be getting a call soon if Scott wasn’t busy. While he waited, Stiles screamed again. He wouldn’t be the lone Liverpool player on the England side, which made it less intimidating. The Liverpool captain, Steven Gerrard, was also the England captain, so Stiles could ask him about any questions he had. Along with Steven Gerrard, four other LFC players were on the England side, and would most likely be called up. Stiles knew that the next International Break would consist of a qualifier match for the 2014 World Cup, and a Friendly match. International breaks always happened during the regular playing season, for usually one or two weeks at a time. During this time, no League matches were played. It would add extra matches for everyone that played during these breaks, adding more strain to their bodies. Stiles would have to be careful, because he was prone to fatigue and minor injuries. 

As if on cue, Stiles’ phone rang. He assumed it would be Scott, that he would get to share his news, but instead it was an unknown number. Stiles’ eyes widened; it had to be Roy Hodgson. Roy was a former manager of Liverpool, but that didn’t mean he gave Liverpool players any kind of special treatment. If he was calling Stiles up for the squad, that meant he believed that Stiles had it in him to be able to help England make it to the World Cup, and possibly win it. 

“Hello?” Stiles said, answering his phone. 

“Przemysł Stilinski?” Roy asked, butchering Stiles’ first name, which was never used. Stiles made a face, but held back any comment that he wanted to make about the usage of his first name. 

“You can call me Stiles,” he said instead, as lightheartedly as possible. 

“Stiles, this is Roy Hodgson-”

“Hello, sir,” Stiles said, cutting him off. He was practically climbing the walls with anticipation. Stiles sat at his kitchen table, his leg bouncing idly as he ripped up little bits of napkin, making a pile while his phone was situated between his shoulder and ear. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the telly, have you?” Roy asked him. 

Stiles shrugged, his eyes darting towards it as he licked his lips. His name flashed across it once more. 

“I’ve not been,” he feigned. 

“That’s -- Well, Stiles, I’m calling you up to join the England squad.” Stiles grinned, he couldn’t help it. “I’ve talked it out with Brendan, and he believes you are up to the task.” Stiles wanted to run around his flat and into the street to tell everyone. “He tells me you’re prone to injury-”

“I’ll take good care of myself, sir,” Stiles assured him. “I won’t let you down.” 

“Don’t push yourself too hard, and tell someone if you’re hurt, you hear me?” Roy said over the line. Stiles nodded his head, knowing that Roy was referencing his captain, Steven Gerrard. He was known to not tell anyone when he’s been hurt because he wanted to play. Stiles knew better, knew it was better to be out for the short term instead of for almost a full season. If he got a major injury he’d lose his starting position. 

“I will, I promise.” 

“We’ll be in contact with your agent, I just wanted to tell you myself. I will see you during the break.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Stiles said, dazed. Roy hung up and Stiles sat there with his phone pressed against his ear. “Holy mother fucking shit.” Stiles got up, made a circle around his living room as he tugged on his hair, trying to think of what to do next. He decided to text Scott again, with _Call me. Freaking out._ If that didn’t get Scott to call him soon, then he’d go over to his house and knock down his door, girlfriend or no. Sighing, Stiles grabbed his car keys. It was early enough in the day that he could make it out to his dad’s and back at a decent hour, and he’d like to tell him in person. Stiles wanted to see the look on his father’s face when he told him that Stiles had made the England squad. 

*  
Training happened every day, except the two days they got off after a match. There was not only recovery training, but fitness and technical. Stiles ran around 10km a day after normal training got out, then did some weight training to build more muscle. He was lean and fast, but he wanted to be able to tackle more efficiently. He had the habit of sliding, but not being able to sufficiently get the ball away from others while doing so. 

He couldn’t concentrate as they did drills, couldn’t take his mind off of the fact that he’d be joining the England squad in less than a week. They were leading up to a big fixture: Liverpool vs. Manchester United, and he couldn’t afford to be so careless during training if he wanted that starting position. There were a number of strikers, forwards that Brendan could choose from. Stiles didn’t always start, but he had the last three matches. He wondered if Brendan would choose not to start him in order to keep Stiles from injury. 

Stiles had to make sure he started against Manchester United. Not only were they Liverpool’s biggest rival, but Stiles had yet to play against them. His first year, he hadn’t even been on the bench for the match. It was one of the biggest fixtures of the year and he felt like he deserved the spot. He was in the top ten in the league as far as goal scoring for the season, up there with the likes of Robin Van Persie and Wayne Rooney, both of whom he would be playing against if he started. So Stiles stayed after training ended to train extra. He wasn’t the only one either. Lucas Leiva was in the gym with him, along with Martin Kelly, who was also prone to injury. Martin would be one of the call-ups he would be joining on the England squad, and he was also one of the youngest on the Liverpool side with Stiles, being twenty-two. 

Brendan stopped by the gym an hour or so after training officially let out, his eyebrow lifting when he saw Stiles running on the treadmill. Stiles gave him a smile that he hoped was confident. He wanted to show that he could be on both, that he deserved to be on both teams. He was young and inexperienced still, but he made up for it with determination to succeed. 

When Stiles finally got off the treadmill, he soaked through his shirt completely. Panting, he made his way to the locker rooms to shower before heading home. It was basically empty, so when Stiles was done he just about jumped out of his skin when he saw Brendan sitting by Stiles’ locker number. Stiles had a towel wrapped around him, his body still dripping wet from the shower. 

“You’re starting this weekend,” Brendan told him. Stiles almost smiled but stopped when Brendan put his hand up like he wasn’t finished. “I want you to show me and the fans that you can do both. Give me a full ninety minutes, show me you can handle it, otherwise I am going to tell Roy to have you warm his bench.” Stiles clenched his jaw in order to bite back any sort of retort. Instead, he just nodded his head. “Good,” was all Brendan said before he walked out, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts. 

He rarely ever played a full ninety minutes, he always seemed to lose steam around eighty minutes, after running around so much. Either that, or he was brought in late in the game in hopes that he could bring the team back from being down a goal, to even the playing field. He was Brendan’s chess piece to be played at the most opportune times. Stiles had to make sure that he would be ready to face Manchester United, and to be able to play the entire match. 

The night before matches, Stiles always goes over to Scott’s. They have dinner together, usually out since neither of them cook, then play video games until they pass out early. Going out to dinner doesn’t sound like a chore, and it never was until Stiles moved up to the first team. Now whenever he went out he was hounded by paparazzi. He didn’t understand, since he wasn’t a movie star or anything; but he was treated like one. They even took his picture when he went clothes shopping and to the store down the street. Once, he was in the hospital overnight, and when his dad came and got him the next day, there they were with their cameras shoved in his face as he tried to walk with crutches. He loathed the paparazzi, but he was beginning to learn how to ignore them. He wore sunglasses, even if it was dark out, so they wouldn’t get as much money for his picture. No one wanted to see his half concealed face, with a hood up and his hands shoved in his pockets like a hooligan. 

He and Scott still went out, though. Their favorite place was a sushi joint nearby Scott’s flat. They sat in the back where it was quieter with less foot traffic. They were only disrupted three times during the meal, which was actually low for the normal pre-match dinner. Stiles had his own bed at Scott’s, a spare room with a toothbrush just for him in the bathroom. Their ritual started before they were both on the first team, back when they both lived with their parents. Stiles’ dad lived outside of Liverpool, and sometimes couldn’t drive him into town before Stiles got his license, so he’d drop Stiles off at the McCalls’ the night before. It seemed wrong, breaking that tradition now. 

“You know, I’m glad I’m not starting tomorrow,” Scott said as they played Call of Duty: Black Ops. Stiles grunted as he concentrated, but then ended up getting killed by some twelve year old somewhere. 

“Why?” Stiles asked, belatedly. 

“That is a shit ton of pressure that I don’t want,” Scott said, wide-eyed. “ManU? I mean, at least we’re going to be at home and not away, but still.” 

Stiles shrugged. He wasn’t that nervous, or so he kept telling himself. If he thought too hard about it, he’d psych himself out. 

“I’d rather play them away first, you know?” Stiles said as he spawned again. “But playing them at Anfield is going to be good. I’ll have the Kop to get me going.” Stiles loved the fans, loved how they chanted not only his name, but had a song for him and everything. They had songs for all the greats like Stevie G, Xabi Alonso, Jamie Carragher. The Kop only made up songs if they loved you, if they believed in you and the fact that Stiles had a song about him within the first few games he played -- that gave him all the confidence that he needed. 

“Still, I’ll be yelling at you from the bench,” Scott joked. Scott played in the midfield, where there was a harder time to get a starting position because of the amount of people on the team who were signed for midfield. Liverpool played in a 4-4-2 formation, meaning that there were four defenders, four midfielders, and two forwards on the field, along with the goalkeeper. Sometimes they played in other formations, but that was the standard that Brandan tended to use. Scott was a defensive midfielder, so he tended to hang back more, but that also meant that he fought for his spot with Lucas Leiva, who had been playing for Liverpool since 2007. Stiles’ technical position was central forward, but he could play as a right wing when they had two forwards on the field at the same time. 

“I better be able to hear you over the Kop,” Stiles said as he stuck his tongue out. Whenever he thought about the Liverpool fans, about the section in Anfield stadium where they sat, he thought about his father bringing him to matches when he was younger. It was always a treat for his birthday, to be able to go to a match with his father. They always sat in the Kop, the fan section that sang the loudest and the proudest for their team. Now, playing for Liverpool, Stiles always pointed up to the stand whenever he scored, grabbing hold of his shirt in order to bring the crest up to his lips so he could kiss it, showing them his admiration for not only the club, but for the fans themselves. 

“Yeah, you’ll hear me,” Scott said as he nudged Stiles’ shoulder with his own. They only played for another ten minutes before they gave up for the night, yawning and stretching out across the couch lazily. They had an early kick-off time, 12:45pm, so they had to be at Anfield two hours prior to that. Stiles liked to arrive even earlier than that, to avoid a lot of fans before the match. When he arrived, he always put headphones in as he walked from his car to the stadium to avoid signing autographs and taking pictures with fans. He did that after matches, win, lose, or draw. If he stopped to talk with them before, he got distracted. Scott always stopped, though. He liked getting to the Stadium even earlier just so he’d have time to sign and take pictures before getting ready in the locker rooms. 

In the locker room, Stiles felt the tension filling the room as everyone arrived. Stiles set his bag down on the bench in front of where his kit was hanging against the wall, with his name and number facing outward so he could see it. He pushed down the nervousness that decided to settle in his stomach. The match itself was important, not only to their standings in the table but because of the deep seated rivalry between the two clubs. Stiles wanted to win, he wanted to show everyone that he could go up against the Red Devils and come out on top. 

Before matches, they went through the game’s tactical game plan, then changed into training kits so that they could go out onto the field and warm up. After they were stretched and ready to play, they made their way back into the locker room to get ready for the actual match, changing into their kits. Usually there was playful banter in the tunnel before a match but not against ManUtd. The two teams met up in the tunnel leading up to the pitch, players jumping, warming up more and stretching as they waited. Stiles concentrated on his breathing, his hands on both of his hips. His friend, Isaac Lahey, was starting along with him in defense, playing the left back position. He stood behind Isaac as they waited, the seconds counting down to kick-off. Stiles’ eyes cast over the Manchester United team. They looked intimidating and surly, if Stiles was being completely honest, but then again, Liverpool probably did too. What with Daniel Agger and Martin Skrtel standing next to each other in front of Stiles and Isaac, both of them covered in tattoos. Stiles wished he could pull off full sleeves, chest, and back tattoos but he didn’t think he could. They looked like two forces to be reckoned with, and Stiles would be afraid to come up against the two defenders if he was playing for another side. 

As if on cue, Stiles heard the music pick up and the line start to move. The song _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ not only blasted through the speakers around Anfield stadium, but every single Liverpool fan was singing it at the top of their lungs. Even though Stiles was still in the tunnel, he could hear them. When it was his turn to walk down the stairs, he reached his hands up to tap the famous ‘This is Anfield’ sign that hung just before the stairwell. It was a tradition for not only him, but the likes of Steven Gerrard and other Liverpool players who bled Liverpool Red. 

Stiles joined his team out on the field in a straight line, his gaze falling across the crowd, their scarves lifted into the air as they continued singing. Before he knew it, their straight line was moving, and everyone began shaking hands with the other team, offering them each a quick ‘good match.’ It showed good sportsmanship, but Stiles still felt the overall feeling of the match darken. Liverpool and ManUtd were neck and neck on the table, with only a point between them and an even goal difference. If Liverpool won this match, then they’d be four points ahead of United, but if United won then they’d be two ahead of Liverpool. Stiles couldn’t fuck this up. 

He wasn’t paying attention to whose hand he had been shaking, but their grip was tight in his hand as he tried to pull away. His gaze focused on a central midfielder named Derek Hale. They were practically the same height, but Derek had more muscle than Stiles did. Where Stiles was lean and lithe, Derek looked as though he spent his extra training hours lifting weights instead of running until he couldn’t feel his legs. Stiles’ jaw clenched as he managed to get out a quiet “Good match,” but he was met with cold eyes, so his voice caught in his throat. 

As the two teams separated to get in their places, Stiles walked towards the center of the field where he and Steven Gerrard would do the kick off together. Stiles rolled his shoulders, jumping slightly to rewarm-up his leg muscles. 

“Don’t let him get to you, lad,” Stevie said to Stiles as he watched Derek Hale make his way towards his starting position. Stiles turned his head, his eyes squinting against the sun. “He’s stirring you up.” 

“Wanker,” Stiles hissed. Stevie laughed, a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as they both waited for the whistle to signify the start of the match. Steven was the one to kick off, passing it to Stiles, who in turn passed it back towards midfield. With the game underway, Stiles tried not to think about anything that wasn’t the game at hand. Keeping possession against Manchester United was always hard, but under their new manager, Gerard Argent, the team lacked the verve that they had possessed the twenty something years that Sir Alex Ferguson had given the team in his time as a Manager. With a new Manager came hardships that United wasn’t used to, but Liverpool knew well with having four managers in the past five years that this was something that United would have to get used to. But Stiles hoped that they could use this to their advantage. For the first time in years, Manchester United wasn’t at the top of the table. Playing United at home, at Anfield where Liverpool was known to reign over their opponents, Stiles pushed down his fear of defeat. 

The referee was one that Stiles knew well. Howard Webb was most known for the 2010 World Cup final when he denied a red card to a player who kicked another in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The thing about football was there were no replays and there was no stopping the clock. The clock continues to roll even when people get injured. Howard Webb didn’t see the blatant foul, so couldn’t call it. In turn, it left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who believed the call he made to be wrong. He was also known not to be neutral when it came to Manchester United. Webb also seemed to have it in for Liverpool, with not calling fouls when they were there along with calling Liverpool out on every infraction. 

Stiles knew as soon as he saw who the referee would be, that their would be an uproar from not only the fans, but the team itself. Now, with the match underway, he didn’t have time to think about biases or unfairness. All he needed to do was concentrate on getting the ball and getting a goal. It only took a few minutes of running to realize that he was being tagged, followed around the pitch to make it hard for him to get the ball. It wasn’t just anyone that was tagging him, though, it was Derek Hale. Did Argent think him that much of a threat that he had Hale give up his position just to shadow Stiles around the pitch? Stiles’ blood boiled as he made a run for it as a lob pass was sent his way by Stevie. He managed to get a touch on the ball, land it to the ground safely, but then suddenly Stiles was on the ground thanks to Hale. It was a tackle, but not illegal. Hale had gone for the ball but left Stiles in his wake. 

With Manchester in possession of the ball, Stiles got to his feet with the help of Daniel Sturridge, the other forward on his team. 

“I hate that guy,” Stiles muttered before he took off towards the ball once more. If Hale wanted to play dirty, Stiles would play dirty. The next time that Hale got the ball, Stiles slipped in behind him and stole it right from underneath his nose, using a quick, cheeky back heel kick to send it to Stevie who wasn’t far away from them. 

“You piece of shit,” Hale spat after the play went elsewhere away from them. Stiles hadn’t stopped moving, but Hale was still trailing after him. “Are you even of age?” 

“Fuck off,” Stiles called out. He couldn’t get near the goal with Hale tracking him so closely, along with one of the United defenders by the name of Vernon Boyd, stopping him like a brick wall every time he got the ball. 

After thirty minutes had passed, the scoreless game was at a standstill with even possession. Stiles was frustrated. All he wanted was to tackle Hale to the ground. He didn’t know what had crawled up his ass and died, but the way Hale was glaring at Stiles you would think he did something to personally offend him. As a forward, Stiles usually waited for a ball to be passed to him. His job was to remain open, to be ready to score within the blink of an eye, but being tracked made it next to impossible to be open. 

Stiles found his opportunity in the forty-third minute. He knew before his foot connected with the ball that it would be a goal. It was off a corner kick, given by Stevie. Stiles was pushed back, almost outside the box that lined the goal scoring area. He watched as the ball bounded into the group that massed together right in front of goal. Daniel Agger headed the ball towards the goal, but it bounced off the goal post and came flying right towards Stiles. 

It was a knee-jerk reaction, but Stiles’ instincts were perfect. He barely registered it as a goal before he had his teammates piling on top of him. He managed to burst it through the throng of players and somehow got it past the goalie. Stiles burst from his teammates, running towards the crowd where he knew his father’s seat was. He no longer sat in the Kop, but held a spot smack dab in the middle of the field so that Stiles could run to him whenever he scored. Once Stiles got there, he kissed the crest of his kit, showing his love and loyalty to his team, his eyes meeting his father’s. His teammates joined him, Daniel Agger lifted him into the air by wrapping his arms around Stiles’ middle. It was short-lived, and Stiles got pats on the back along with short pecks on the cheek from Steven Gerrard and Martin Skrtel. 

Stiles swelled with pride as he made his way back to his starting position. After a goal was scored, the players returned to their positions when the whistle first blew, only this time the opposing team got to kick off, giving them the advantage. Stiles locked eyes with Derek Hale, then smirked. Hale looked livid, which made Stiles even happier. No one could stop him, not even Derek Hale. 

Before Stiles knew it, the whistle blew, and the first half of the game was over. 

The players made their way off the field, back down the tunnel, and into the locker rooms. On the way there, Stiles found himself walking down the tunnel next to Derek Hale. He wanted to heckle him, goad him, but Stiles was too tired. He needed that ten minutes of rest if he was going to make it the full ninety minutes. He had to make it through the entire match. With Hale tracking him over the field, Stiles was running more than he normally had to and it was exhausting him. They glared at each other one last time before both headed into their own locker rooms. 

Once in there, Stiles was met with the pungent smell of manly sweat. He was used to it, and was covered in sweat himself, but that didn’t mean it didn’t make his nose scrunch up at the stench. He sat up on one of the physio tables where one of the physios waited for them. His muscles were sore and tense from running, and if he was going to make it through the match he needed her help. She gave him a small smile as he grabbed a water bottle and began downing it as she massaged his thighs. 

Brendan Rodgers entered the locker room with his hands on his hips and a serious look on his face that had Stiles’ breath stop. He thought they were doing rather well, considering he had just scored his sixth goal of the season and it was only October -- they were only three months into this year’s fixtures. Brendan looked straight at Stiles, which had him even more worried. 

“Good job out there, Stilinski. Hale is giving you hell and you just showed Argent just how sly you can be. Keep it up.” Stiles hadn’t been expecting praise, so he couldn’t do anything but nod as he rested his head back and drank more water. His chest was heaving from running so much. “We need to keep up the momentum in the second half,” Rodgers said as he looked to the rest of the team. “Some of you are dragging. I expect more goals and to come out of this match with three points.”

Before he knew it, the team was being dismissed. He walked back on the field, following Stevie and Daniel Agger. His muscles were sore, so he stretched them as they waited for the second half to kick off. If tension was high in the first half, then it was lethal in the second. Tackles became harsher, and the referee wasn’t shy about booking players for yellow cards. Daniel Agger was the first to receive one, for a harsh tackle on Nani, a forward for Utd. Nani stayed down, and from across the field Stiles could tell that he was angry. Daniel rarely got carded, and he was mad because, to him, Nani was playing up a soft tackle by clutching at his ankle. 

“Get up and play some fucking football!” Danny yelled. Stiles could hear it at the other end. Steven, as captain, was talking with Howard Webb about the call, pointing at Nani. Things got heated when play restarted, and Nani ran without a limp. He was perfectly fine, and had dove. Danny hadn’t deserved the yellow card. Moments later, within the blink of an eye, Robin Van Persie scored on Liverpool, making the score 1-1. Stiles ran his fingers through his hair, anger rising to the surface. If play hadn’t been disrupted, it wouldn’t have happened. 

“Bullshit,” Stiles mumbled as he spat at the ground, his hands on his hips as he walked back to his starting position. As he walked, Derek Hale bumped into him. Stiles reeled, shoving Derek’s arm. “Get the fuck off,” Stiles hissed. Derek lunged forward, as if to attack, making Stiles flinch, but nothing happened. 

“Let’s see how you do now,” Derek said as he walked away. Stiles almost went after him, but hands on his shoulders stopped him. It was Stevie, dragging Stiles to the center of the pitch where they’d kick off together. 

“We got this, Stiles,” Stevie told him, though his voice was grave and his demeanor hard. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Too fucking late,” Stiles said. 

“Watch yourself.”

“You watch it, too,” Stiles said with a smirk. He knew his captain well. He grew up watching Steven Gerrard play. Stiles couldn’t remember a time before Stevie was on the pitch. He had already broken into the first team by the time Stiles started paying attention to the players. Now, Steven was in his mid 30s and would be retiring soon. Steven was known to tackle harshly against United, especially if Liverpool were down. 

Once more, they were off, running down the field with the ball in their possession. Stiles glanced at the clock, seeing that there was still plenty of time left to score again. They wouldn’t come out of the match with a draw. As soon as Derek Hale had the ball, Stiles was on him in seconds, sliding across the grass, nicking Derek’s boots instead of the ball. The whistle was blown, and Stiles cursed. He fouled Derek, who was on the ground glaring at Stiles. Both of them got to their feet, then bounded into each other’s personal space. Derek’s face was right up against Stiles’, their foreheads practically touching. 

“You little piece of shit fuck,” Derek raged, his hands carefully in fists at his side. Stiles grit his teeth as he refrained from touching Derek. He knew if he did, he’d have a yellow card. Hands grabbed at Stiles, pulling him away from Derek, but he pushed them away. Derek, too, did the same, pushing the likes of Boyd and Ryan Giggs off of him only to come back towards Stiles. Stiles didn’t even know who was holding him back, but as soon as he heard the whistle, he knew he was in trouble. He stopped moving immediately to glance over at Howard Webb, who was reaching into his back pocket to retrieve the yellow card. Stiles shook his head, looking to Derek with his jaw dropped. 

He received his yellow card, while Derek received none. There was an uproar on the field as Daniel Agger shouted “Fucking unfair call!” and Steven tried to calm Stiles down putting a hand to the back of Stiles’ neck. There was pounding in Stiles’ ears, his blood pumped angrily through his veins as the free kick against Liverpool was given, giving United the advantage. 

Within minutes, United scored again. Stiles felt like falling over where he stood. They were down 1-2 because of him, it felt like, even though he hadn’t been anywhere near the play when it happened. Somehow, Lahey let Nani through him. As they made their way to kick off once more, Isaac was pulled out of the game, replaced by Martin Kelly. Brendan Rodgers was not happy, and Stiles could practically feel his manager stare him down from where he was on the field. Stiles had to get a grip on himself, he had to score again. 

He got three shots on goal in five minutes, with seven left on the clock. Liverpool had most of the possession, and Stiles was feeling lucky. They were pressuring United hard, but eventually time ran out. There was only one minute of stoppage time, for Stiles’ short brawl, but that was it. The whistle blew, and the game was over. Liverpool lost, Stiles hadn’t been able to bring in the brace needed to make it a draw. Manchester United got the three points for the match, leaving Liverpool with zero. 

Stiles felt numb as he walked towards the tunnel. Around him, players were shaking hands with each other, showing good sportsmanship, but Stiles wasn’t in the mood for it. He offered his hand limply to those who approached him, but he avoided Derek Hale at all costs, glaring at him as he made sure he kept his distance. Scott was in front of him, clapping him on the back, bringing Stiles out of his revelry of loathing. 

“That was some goal!” Scott said with a smile. Stiles didn’t feel good about the goal, not when it didn’t bring in a win. 

“Don’t,” Stiles said as he locked eyes with Derek. “Let’s go.” 

Derek’s stern face was too hard to look away from, and before Stiles knew it they were shaking hands once more. 

“Good match,” Derek said, his voice dripping with disdain. Stiles sneered, his shoulders shrugging. 

“Congrats on the three points,” Stiles said sarcastically. The corner of Derek’s mouth turned upwards, but he didn’t say anything else before Stiles turned and walked down into the tunnel with Scott following behind him. 

“Dude, you guys have it in for each other or something.” Stiles scoffed at Scott’s obvious statement. “I mean, I thought you were about to start hitting each other on the field when you tackled him.”

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Stiles said as they walked towards the locker room. “And I hate him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked to write a primer on the difference between League play and International play. It can be viewed [here](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/66428981298/versus-behind-the-scenes-on-league-play-vs)  
> As always, you can [ask me](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/ask) anything!

The day after the match, Stiles went down to Melwood, Liverpool’s training facility, where he knew that Brendan would be. With his door closed, Stiles stood before it for a time before knocking. He heard a faint “Come in,” then let himself in. Brendan sat at his desk, not looking the least bit surprised to see Stiles in his office on his day off. Stiles gulped, his hands shoved into the pockets of the jeans he was wearing. 

“Resting up, I hope,” Brendan said without a hint of disdain on his lips. Stiles wanted to be yelled at, needed to feel like he was right in feeling like shit about how the match went. 

“I fucked up,” Stiles blurted out. Brendan’s eyebrows skyrocketed, so Stiles backtracked. “About the match, sir, I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.” 

“Stiles, that match was difficult, and I know you tried hard. But I am not going to placate you: you could have done better.” 

Stiles bit his lip, knowing that Brendan was telling him the truth even if it was hard to hear. “You scored, but you disappointed me when you let Hale get to you.” Stiles clenched his jaw as he listened, knowing that he needed to do better next time if he wanted to continue starting. “But you did well, considering they were on you for the entire match. You ran faster and farther than you ever did before now.” Stiles didn’t doubt it. When he went home, he took a two-hour bath to relax his muscles. Today, he was so sore he could barely move. He wasn’t about to tell his manager that, though. 

“Despite the outcome of the match, I think that Roy was pleased with how you played. You held off Hale, you even scored the opening goal of the match. He would be blind if he didn’t put you in the starting eleven with England.” Stiles swelled with pride at the hard-won acknowledgement of his skills. “I will warn you, though, that Roy called me this morning, wanting me to talk to you about one thing.”

“What’s that, sir?” Stiles asked. 

“The fact that Derek Hale has been called up as well,” Brendan said. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. He, of course, knew that Derek had been called up in the past, but it wasn’t consistent. He was called up when there had been significant injuries in the midfield but not since. 

“Thank you for letting me know, sir,” Stiles managed to get out. “I’ll just let myself out.” Brendan stood up, reaching his hand out for Stiles to shake. 

“I will see you when you get back. I expect you to be in full health, no knocks and no sprains, when you return to training here.” 

“You got it, sir.”

After Stiles left Melwood, he went to his dad’s. If he was going to be traveling with the England National Team for a week or so, he wanted to spend time with his father before he went off. Stiles didn’t do well with traveling, never had. With Liverpool, sometimes they stayed away for a night if they were playing a London team, but that wasn’t being away for a long period of time. On top of leaving his father, he’d be without Scott. Sure, he’d have some of the other Liverpool players there, but he wasn’t close with them, and he wasn’t about to stick by the side of Stevie the whole time he was away. He refused to admit that he didn’t want to be away from the comfort of Anfield, of his team. Sure, he wanted to play for his country, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to play with players who he grew up disliking because they played for another team. Suddenly, he’d have to trust these players, to work with them. He would have to work alongside Derek Hale, whom Stiles really didn’t want to have anything to do with. 

Once to his father’s, Stiles found himself in his childhood bedroom, looking up at the posters that still lined the walls. Steven Gerrard, who looked much younger than he did now, still hung up above his bed, beside Kenny Dalglish and Robbie Fowler, all legends at Liverpool Football Club. In his closet hung all of his childhood kits that were way too small for him to wear now, but he would never get rid of them. 

His father was still at work, so eventually Stiles made his way downstairs where he started making dinner for the two of them. Stiles wasn’t one for cooking, but there were some of his mother’s recipes that he knew by heart. With ingredients he found in the cupboard, he managed to be able to put together a homemade pizza. By the time his father walked in, it was cooling. 

“What a surprise!” His dad said as he pulled Stiles in for a hug. Stiles wrapped his arms around his father, breathing him in. “You leaving for International duty tomorrow?” He asked Stiles. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice muffled because his face was buried in his father’s jacket. “I don’t want to go,” Stiles admitted aloud. 

“Oh, that is a load of bollocks,” his father laughed. “You have been waiting for this all your life.” Stiles grimaced as the embrace ended, the both of them taking a step back. “Your mother would be proud of you.” Silence filled the kitchen at the mention of Stiles’ mother, who was long since gone, but forever in their hearts. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Stiles said as he set about cutting the pizza into slices, burning the tips of his fingers. He stuck his index finger in his mouth, hoping to ease the burn. Of course, it didn’t help at all. 

“You aren’t leaving me, son. You’re going on a trip, you’re going to be playing footie for your country.”

“How am I supposed to play with people that I have grown up hating?” Stiles blurted out. No one has told him how he was supposed to switch off a life of rivalry in order to suddenly work with players from other teams. 

“You don’t hate anyone, Stiles,” his father chided. Stiles bit his lip as he thought about one person in particular. “You grew up watching the Three Lions as well as Liverpool, surely you know how to put country over club for one week.” Stiles made a face, because to him it had always been club over country, not the other way around. 

“Pizza’s ready,” Stiles said, handing his father a plate. They sat down, and for a moment Stiles was sure that he avoided continuing the topic altogether. At least, he thought as much until his dad brought it up once more. 

“Why don’t you want to go? Be honest.” Stiles deflated. He hated when his dad took that tone with him, fatherly with a hint of being worried. “Did something happen?” Stiles shook his head, waving a hand around to make sure his dad realized that it wasn’t anything serious, not like how he was thinking, at least. 

“No, Dad, nothing happened-”

“If anyone hurts you because-”

“Dad!” Stiles shouted, wanting to calm his dad down. “No one hurt me, don’t... don’t worry about that.” Stiles squirmed in his seat, putting his pizza down. He lost his appetite. 

“I worry about you, you know,” his dad said, resigned. “If it isn’t the team, it could be a belligerent fan, close-minded and-”

“Dad,” Stiles implored. “No one even knows.” Stiles bit his lip, his teeth digging in deep. No one knew he was gay. Homophobia was rampant in football, in both the fanbase at large and internally. It was sort of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ only it would basically be asking for his name to be booed at matches if anyone knew. He didn’t want to be booed off the field, or to have slurs shouted at him. 

Stiles pushed his plate away, his head shaking. 

“I don’t want to go because I don’t want to leave you,” Stiles reiterated. “And I don’t like Hale.”

“He’s the one that you tackled,” his dad pointed out. Stiles made a ‘yeah, no shit’ face which earned him a glare. “Eat the dinner you made.”

“Yeah, I got carded.”

“Congratulations on your first card of the season,” his dad joked. Stiles stuck his tongue out before he finally took a bite of his pizza. 

“I feel like I should make a speech,” Stiles said with his mouth full. “I owe this card to the fucking twat Derek Hale-”

“Stiles,” his dad warned. 

“The Manc bastard,” Stiles finished with a grin, which his father returned. They were Liverpool born and bred, and there was no changing the way they felt about Manchester United. 

“You’re going to have to keep those words to yourself this week. What with Rooney, Hale, Welbeck, and Jones all on England’s side.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, slumping down in his seat as he sighed. He suddenly felt very tired. All he wanted was to sleep in his childhood bed and not think about the fact that he couldn’t be himself in the eyes of the public. He always had to hide a part of himself, could never be the real him. Sacrifice was something that he knew well. With the price of fame came a closed door in regard to his private life. He got to play football, but in return he had keep his sexuality to himself. “I think that I’ll be fine, you know? I’ll have Stevie there,” Stiles pointed out. “And Kels, Sturridge, Glenn, and Jordan. I won’t be alone, I just won’t have Scott there.” Scott was the only person on the team who knew Stiles, the real Stiles. Usually, it wasn’t a problem for Stiles, but for some reason, being at home with his dad on the eve of leaving just had him in a mood where he couldn’t shake the feeling of displeasure at himself. 

He liked who he was, who he turned out to be. Some days, though, he was down on himself. Stiles supposed that everyone had bad days, that life just was like that, with ups and downs. He only wished his life wasn’t so publicized. He couldn’t even go out to a club without being photographed. 

“See? You don’t have anything to worry about. So, are you spending the night, or do you have to head back to town before you leave in the morning?” His father asked as he got himself seconds. Stiles got up, rinsed his plate, then put it in the dishwasher. As he leaned against the kitchen counter, he strummed his fingers against the countertop, trying to decide if he wanted to get up extra early to go back to his apartment to pack or if he wanted to just leave that night. 

“I’m spending the night,” Stiles said, giving his dad a small smile. He really needed to spend time here, he wasn’t in the right mindset to go home to an empty apartment. Scott would be with Allison, his girlfriend, so Stiles wouldn’t be able to crash there. He might as well stay. 

“Glad to hear it! We’ll put a movie on.” Stiles liked coming home, being with his dad, because it all felt so normal. His life in general, was no longer normal, but whenever he came home it was as if it reverted back to how it was when he was younger. 

They ended up watching an old Bond movie with Sean Connery. Stiles fell asleep halfway through, and when he woke up to the credits rolling, his father was snoring in his recliner right next to Stiles who had taken up the entire couch. He shook his dad awake, saying that they both should head to bed. Grunting, his father followed Stiles up the narrow stairs, leading to their two bedrooms. The house was small, with a few improvements that Stiles gave it with his first big paychecks: a dishwasher, along with all new kitchen appliances, and a big screen TV. 

Stiles undressed, then fell into bed. His mind refused to shut off at first as he thought about the England squad, about the United match, and about Derek Hale. He groaned as he shifted in bed, attempting to get more comfortable. Eventually, he was able to fall into a fitful sleep. 

He woke up just before his alarm on his phone went off, long enough to turn it off before the EPL theme song played. He didn’t know why it was his alarm, but he loved "Fire" by Kasabian, and the fact that it was played before every EPL league on Sky Sports made Stiles smile. He supposed since most of the time, he never got to hear it because he was busy playing, it hadn’t gotten on his nerves yet. 

After Stiles got dressed and walked downstairs, he saw that his father had made him breakfast and left it on the counter for him, covered in foil with a note on top of it. 

_Have fun, love you_ , was all it said. Stiles smiled to himself as he ate the eggs and toast. When he was finished, he did all of the dishes that were in the sink, then picked up his keys where he had left them the night before, in the bowl by the door. With one last look at his childhood home, Stiles got into his car and made his way back to Liverpool. 

It took him an hour to pack, mainly because he had no idea what to bring besides socks, underwear, and his iPad. The team wore training kits that were provided, and he had his traveling clothes that were also given to him. He felt like he was in school, with how they had to match, but he was used to it with Liverpool. Only instead of red, the colors were white with hints of blue. He dressed in a track suit with a Three Lions crest over the heart. Stiles looked at himself in the mirror, surprised at how he looked. He hadn’t seen himself in another kit since he signed for Liverpool ten years ago. Since then, he only wanted to wear Liverpool Red. Now, even though it was his country’s colors, it seemed odd. 

He ended up packing a few random outfits, then attempted to stuff his pillow into his suitcase as well. Stiles ended up taking his pillow anyway, putting it under his arm as he rolled out his suitcase to his car. He and the other players from Liverpool were meeting at Melwood, where they would then travel together to London. 

Stiles wasn’t the first of the Liverpool squad to arrive at Melwood, which made him feel better. Steven Gerrard stood outside of the bus they’d be riding in, talking with someone. Their back was to Stiles, and he couldn’t place them from the angle he was at. As he caught Stiles’ eye, Stevie gave him a warning look. Stiles stopped dead in his tracks as Derek Hale turned around to face him. 

“What,” Stiles said, unable to stop himself. He didn’t know they’d be traveling with the Manchester United lot all the way to London. Derek lifted an eyebrow at Stiles. All Stiles wanted to do was knee him then walk into the bus and not let Derek onto it. ‘No Mancs Allowed’ would be plastered against the door. Stiles made a face at Derek. 

“Stiles, Derek was just telling me about how he was visiting his uncle, who is in Mersey-”

“What? Not in a Manc hospital?” Stiles said, once more unable to keep his mouth shut. Stevie gave him a look, and Derek just stood there silent as ever. 

“My sister lives in Liverpool, she’s a nurse at Mersey hospital. So he’s there, with her.” Derek’s voice was clipped and distant, like he didn’t want to be talking with Stiles at all. Stiles rustled his pillow out from underneath his arm in order to hold it better. Derek looked down at it and Stiles could tell that he was being judged for bringing it along with him. Stiles turned his body slightly, blocking it from Derek’s view as one of the assistants put Stiles’ suitcase under the bus. 

“Well, I’m just gonna go...” Stiles left Steven and Derek outside, while he practically ran up into the bus with his pillow and bookbag. He tossed his things in a seat, but didn’t feel like sitting quite yet, not when he had a three-and-a-half-hour ride ahead of them. Stiles’ seat faced the side of the bus where Stevie and Derek were talking, and Stiles felt like he was eavesdropping although he could barely hear them. Stevie and Derek had played together in the past, and they seemed to be having a regular conversation, Stiles’ fuck up aside. He was rude, he knew, especially if Derek had family in the hospital. He felt bad, because he knew well what it was like to have someone living at one, how draining it was to visit them and have them hooked to tubes and wires. Stiles looked down at his hands as he sat down, slouching in his seat. 

It was a small bus, half the size of a normal one. Stiles supposed it made sense, since it would only be a few of them going, but that meant he had more of a chance of being near Derek for the entire way there. Eventually, Stiles was joined by Martin Kelly and Jordan Henderson, who sat together in the back of the bus. Steven sat directly behind Stiles, which relieved him. He hoped to get his captain alone at some point and ask him how he had felt the first time he was called up to play for England, if he felt as nauseous as Stiles did, this out of place. Stiles turned around to ask him when Derek sat right across from him. Stiles shut his mouth, then turned back around. He didn’t want to ask Stevie in front of Derek. 

He crossed his arms, then looked out the window. It was going to be a long ride. There was enough room in the bus that no one had to share a row, so Stiles spread out across the two seats he had claimed. He forewent the seatbelt, and leaned his head against the window as he put his feet up on the seat next to his, positioning his iPad so he could see it easily without holding it up. The only downside was that he could see Derek in his periphery. Stiles grumbled to himself as he adjusted his headphones. He was about to start watching an episode of _Lost_ , which he was currently marathoning whenever he got the chance, but Derek was distracting him. Well, it wasn’t on purpose.

Derek was sleeping, or rather, he had his eyes closed. His head was resting against the window and his arms were crossed with his legs stretched out to the side with his mouth hanging open slightly. Stiles should have been paying attention to Jack crying about having to go back to the island, but instead he found himself staring openly at Derek, at his beautifully stubbled face. Stiles’ jaw clenched when he realized what was happening. 

He had to shut that down right then and there. Stiles was about to have a war with his dick if this was how it was going to go with Derek Hale. Just because someone made Stiles’ junk tingle didn’t mean he should act on his impulses. This was Derek Hale. Not only was he a footballer, but he was also a Manc on top of that. There was no way Stiles would allow himself to even jerk off thinking about Derek Hale, let alone start to believe that something could actually happen between them. Stiles snapped out of his revelry when Derek shifted, his hand absentmindedly scratching himself, readjusting by cupping his groin. Stiles bit his lip and looked down at his iPad, only to look back up again to see Derek staring at him. Stiles’ eyes narrowed, his nose scrunching up unamused as he pretended to be immersed in watching _Lost_. The next time he looked up, Derek’s eyes were closed once more. 

After two episodes of _Lost_ , Stiles needed to use the bathroom. It was empty, so he walked to the back of the bus and got into the cramped space that was the washroom. He was tall, and even though he was skinny, he barely fit. When he thought about the massiveness that was Derek Hale in the small quarters, Stiles snorted to himself. Derek would probably get stuck. Stiles grunted to himself, because he thought about Derek Hale while his own hand was holding his dick, which he was pretty sure he just promised himself he wouldn’t do. 

His dick throbbed, going against his wishes. Stiles closed his eyes, willing himself not to get hard. Of course, his mind betrayed him as well as he thought about Derek touching himself. 

“Fuck,” Stiles hissed as he palmed himself. He’d have to make it quick. There was nothing in the bathroom to help him along, so Stiles spit downwards, letting it fall onto his cock where his hand quickly pumped over it, helping his fingers slide up and down his shaft. Stiles’ head hung back as he let himself feel good. With one hand on the door, the other on his cock, Stiles jacked off. It was fast, and not at all gentle. He wanted to come quickly, hopefully not bringing himself too much attention. Stiles bit down on his lower lip as he came, covering his own hand in sticky, hot come. He let out a guttural moan that he couldn’t really keep to himself as he kept stroking through his orgasm. He washed his hands, chancing a look at the mirror. His face was red, along with his neck, but there wasn’t much that could be done about that. He splashed water on his face, but he knew it wouldn’t do much. 

As he exited the bathroom, his cheeks reddened further when he saw that Derek was standing there, waiting with a smirk on his face. Stiles’ features darkened, his face set in a semi-permanent frown that he supposed only happened when faced with Derek. Without a word, Stiles slipped around Derek, his head low as he hurried back to his seat. As he passed by Stevie, he heard his captain call his name. 

“Stiles, lad, what were you going to ask me earlier?” Stevie asked, looking at the seat beside him. Stiles, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his track pants, hesitated. He didn’t know if he wanted to sit next to Steven after jerking off in the bathroom. His face was already red enough as it was. Stiles sat anyways, though, because he did want to ask Stevie about being on the squad. 

“Yeah, uh, I wanted to ask about when you were first called up? For England?” Stiles asked, unsure if that was okay. Steven smiled at him warmly. 

“Me? Well I was nervous, wasn’t I? I mean, to play with the likes of Beckham himself, along with the other lads. I was young, about your age, and the most inexperienced of the lot of them.” Stiles swallowed, because that was just about the same as he felt. “I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to play with them, with these big leaguers.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, slouching. “I don’t know why Roy called me up if he already has Rooney-”

“You and I both know you can shoot Rooney out of the park,” Steven said with a grin. “You can run circles around him all day.” 

“But how am I supposed to work with them?” Stiles asked honestly. “You know, after having to be against them for so long.” The smile Steven gave him next made Stiles feel like he wasn’t in on the joke. 

“That’s something you’re going to have to figure out on your own. Me? I just don’t think about rivalry while we wear this crest.” Steven pointed at Stiles’ heart where the patch with the Three Lions was stitched into his jacket. “We all started where you are, unsure and scared. Do us a favor though, yeah? Don’t be like me and not tell anyone if you are injured.” 

“You aren’t the first person to tell me that,” Stiles admitted. 

“That’s because I was injured but I didn’t tell anyone, played anyways. I was young, and didn’t want to fuck up.”

“I don’t want to fuck up either,” Stiles said, worried that he was going to. 

“You won’t. You just be yourself, yeah? Roy knows how you play, he’s watched you. He knows what you can do.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, feeling better after talking with Steven. Stiles was just about to get up when Derek passed by them, making Stiles’ back stiffen. Obviously, Steven noticed. 

“Everything okay between you two?” Steven asked. “It’s not like you to get your knickers in a twist about someone.” Stiles scoffed. 

“Just not used to playing Mancs,” Stiles said, his lips lifting in a sneer. Steven laughed loudly, making the entire bus look their way. Stiles grinned, glad he could amuse Steven. 

“That is something you’ll never be used to lad,” Steven confessed. “When you grow up playing for one team, it is hard to turn that switch off.” Stiles looked to Derek as he nodded his head. It would definitely be hard to work with him, no matter how much his dick seemed to enjoy when Stiles looked at him. 

After that, Stiles slipped back into his own seat, this time sitting up the correct way instead of lounging across the two spaces. This way he didn’t have to look directly at Derek the entire time. It didn’t take long to get to London after that. He barely finished the third episode of _Lost_ before it was time to get off the bus. They arrived at the hotel they’d be staying at as they trained, until they played against Montenegro at the weekend. Stiles followed Steven into the hotel, along with the others, after they grabbed their bags, which were immediately handed off to bellboys. Stiles knew they’d be sharing rooms, but he hadn’t really thought about it until that point. 

There he was, standing in a lobby in London, and he was hit with a sudden panic about rooming with another footballer. What if it wasn’t someone on Liverpool? Would Roy do that to him on his first call up? What if it was a Manc? Stiles tried to get ahold of himself. Steven walked them over to a young woman who was wearing an England crest, who had their room assignments. Stiles felt like he was going to an overnight trip with his school, being handed a key and everything as he was told to be down to dinner at quarter past six, dressed accordingly. Stiles frowned, because he wasn’t even told who his roommate was, just handed an itinerary and his key. 

He thought about asking Steven, but he had already heading towards the lift. Stiles followed the others, looking at the room number marked in pen at the top of his itinerary, after his name. They had written his full name out, to which he grimaced. He didn’t even know who to tell about wanting to be called Stiles. After managing to squeeze into the lift with the others, Stiles waited until the tenth floor to be let out. It seemed as though most of them got off on the same floor as him, along with Martin Kelly and Jordan Henderson. Stiles hoped, for a moment, that he would be rooming with one of them, but the two of them stopped at the door before his. Apparently they got to share. Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of them. Stiles’ eyes widened when he saw Derek Hale swiping his keycard over the lock with his room number on it. 

Stiles laughed as he covered his mouth. This was some sort of cosmic joke that was being played on him and he knew it. His jerk off session hadn’t been enough of an embarrassment, apparently, because now he had to share a room with Derek Hale, the cause of his sole yellow card and currently the thought of him left a certain horrible taste in his mouth while at the same time made his dick twitch. He was going to hell. Derek pushed the door open, his eyebrow lifting again like his life, too, was being ruined. Stiles hugged his pillow closer to himself as he forced his way into the room. It was nice, had two large beds, and a pretty good sized bathroom. Stiles tossed his things on the bed closest to the window without a word, then sat down. He had no idea what he should do with his time. They had a good amount of time before they were due down to dinner. 

“So...” Stiles said as he watched Derek unpack. He didn’t bring much, either, except the same England squad clothes that Stiles also had. At dinner they were to wear slacks, along with their Three Lions crest jackets. Stiles hated formal wear, but since everyone had to wear it he decided he would shut up about it. He even brought a tie, which he hated even more than suit jackets themselves. He’d rather continue wearing his track suit. Instead of answering him, Derek continued unpacking. “Okay, fine, I can talk to myself-”

“Please, don’t.” 

“Alright, then. You talk.” Derek sighed at Stiles’ tone, which okay, maybe Stiles was acting like a bit of a dick, but whose idea was it to put them together, anyways?

“Don’t have much to say to you,” Derek said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to nap.” 

“You slept all the way here, though,” Stiles pointed out.

“Well I’d rather sleep than sit here and talk to you,” Derek snapped. At that, Stiles stood up, his fists clenched tight. 

“Fuck you, I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I,” Derek said. Suddenly they were face to face, mere inches from each other. Stiles couldn’t recall how he got there but he couldn’t help but glance from Derek’s eyes to his lips then back again. Derek did the same, which made Stiles step back. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Stiles mumbled, grabbing his headphones and his phone from the bed. “Leave you to your nap.” 

Without looking back, Stiles left the hotel room. It wasn’t smart, going off on his own, but he didn’t want to be in his hotel room, either. If he thought about it, he should have changed jackets, at least. Walking around London with the England crest on his chest was just asking to be mobbed. He didn’t care, though, he could deal with it if it happened. He had a few hours before the dinner, so he set off west at a jog once he was outside. He could always Google map his way back to the hotel if he got lost. He got ten blocks from the hotel before he even thought about slowing down. 

The streets were busy, and no one stopped him even if they did double take a few times. Stiles drowned out the noise of the street with music, but it was disrupted when he had an incoming call. It was an unknown number, which Stiles rarely answered, but he did this time, especially when it said the number was from Manchester. 

“Yeah?” He asked, finally stopping. He panted as he waited for whoever was on the line to answer him. “Hello?” 

“Stiles.” It was Derek Hale. Stiles rolled his eyes as he licked his chapped lips. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asked. 

“Are you out of the hotel?” Derek asked. 

“Yeah, why?” Stiles asked as he began walking, still farther away from the hotel. 

“Because we aren’t supposed to leave alone,” Derek pointed out. “In case something happens.”

“What, like we are quarantined?” Stiles asked. “I need to run, so I’m running.”

“Yeah, well they have gyms in hotels for a reason,” Derek said, obviously frustrated with Stiles.

“Well, I didn’t think of that, did I?” 

“Brilliant of you, really,” Derek murmured. “Going out in London of all places, unsupervised-”

“Hey, you’re making me sound like a child-”

“You are a _child_ , Stiles. Now where are you?” Derek asked. Without thinking about it, Stiles looked around for the street signs, telling Derek which crossroads he was at. “Stay there, I am coming to get you.”

“I can just walk back on my own, you know. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“We aren’t supposed to-” Derek let out an angry noise which Stiles could only classify as a growl, although Derek’s voice wasn’t low enough for it to really be considered one. “Just fucking stay there, alright?” 

“Fine,” Stiles snapped as he hung up. As soon as he did, his music cut back on, making him jump. He had forgotten he had been listening to it in the first place. Stiles hated waiting, mainly because he wasn’t sure why he had to. He knew his way back to the hotel, he hadn’t made any turns. It was a straight shot back, and now Derek was coming to get him like he was lost or something just as degrading. Eventually, Derek came into view, which shouldn’t have made Stiles’ heart uptick. He smiled as Derek jogged up to him, his face slightly red from running. 

“Took you long enough,” Stiles joked. That got him a good eye roll, which he took with pride. Something about getting under Derek’s skin made Stiles happy. 

“Come on, let’s get back,” Derek said, putting his hand on Stiles’ lower back, guiding him back towards the hotel. Stiles walked out ahead, away from Derek’s touch. He didn’t need to be coddled, and he definitely didn’t need to be touched by Derek, even if it meant nothing. His back tingled where Derek’s hand had been, and Stiles couldn’t help but gulp as his eyes cast back at Derek, where his hand was down by his side. 

“Why are you playing chaperone?” Stiles asked after they had been walking for over a block. 

“Because, I told you, we aren’t supposed to go out alone. We should have someone with us, actually,” Derek said as he looked around. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“I walk around Liverpool all the-”

“Yeah, and I walk around Manchester. This is different.” 

“I don’t see how,” Stiles said with a shrug. Derek looked constipated, and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. “What? You need to calm down a bit.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Stiles’ grin flattened at Derek’s tone. 

“No.”

“Then snap out of it. There are rules, International Duty means no going out alone. Everything is done with the team, you were handed the itinerary, but did you even read it?” Derek asked, clearly unamused. 

“I hadn’t gotten the chance before you made it clear that I wasn’t welcome in my own room,” Stiles pointed out, his temper rising once more. 

“You’re the one that -- You know what, no,” Derek said, giving up. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what? Talking? Going to ignore me now?” Stiles jibbed, his elbow nudging Derek’s side. 

“I don’t understand you,” Derek admitted. Stiles beamed, forgetting for a moment just who he was talking with. 

“I’m a mystery,” Stiles said with a faux sigh. “Or so I have been told.” The hotel came into view, and with it, reality. Derek may have come to get Stiles because he fucked up, but that didn’t mean he cared. As they entered the lobby, everyone looked at them, some with confused faces, especially the woman who gave them their room keys earlier. Derek steered Stiles towards the lift with his hand on Stiles’ bicep. 

“This isn’t necessary, I can find the lift myself,” Stiles hissed low enough that only Derek could hear him. 

“She’s going to tell Roy, or Finstock, and then we’re both going to be ripped new assholes,” Derek snapped in Stiles’ ear. “So just follow my lead.” The woman, a blonde with curled hair and a wicked grin, walked up to them clutching her clipboard to her chest. 

“Sneak out?” She asked sweetly. Derek’s hand was still on Stiles’ arm, growing tighter by the second. Stiles let out a small noise as he shrugged, feigning ignorance. After all, he hadn’t even realized it was a rule. 

“Needed some air is all, Erica,” Derek said smoothly. She smiled at him, which Stiles wanted to gag at. He didn’t have a face that could melt people, let alone get his way. Apparently Derek was one of those people, though, bending the will of others with a word and a look. Stiles scowled. “Won’t happen again, promise.” Erica looked from Stiles to Derek, then back at Stiles again. 

“In the morning, get to training fifteen early and we’ll be even.”

“Gonna make us run suicides?” Derek joked. Erica smirked. Stiles, baffled, looked to Derek for answers. “We’ll be there.”

“With bells on,” Erica called over her shoulder as she walked back towards the front desk, giving them both one more once-over before she went out of sight.

“What the fuck was that about?” Stiles asked, his voice low. “Who is she? Can she make us train earlier?”

“That’s Erica. She’s one of the trainers, along with Hodgson and Finstock.” 

“Huh,” Stiles said as they walked into the lift. Derek hit the button, which made Stiles frown. He had wanted to push it. “I didn’t know England had a woman trainer.”

“She’s pretty lethal,” Derek said with a smile. “She’ll get our blood pumping hard for fifteen before everyone else arrives.” 

“Are you and her...?”

“No,” Derek said, cutting Stiles off. “I just appreciate a woman who knows her football. She’s a technical genius. If you sit her down with a beer, she will talk footie all night.”

“You aren’t helping your case here,” Stiles pointed out. “Still sounds like you two are sleeping together.” Derek was quiet after that, to which Stiles looked at the floor. He had put his foot in his mouth one too many times already. Stiles hated the silence that followed, it was practically deafening as he tapped his foot against the carpeted floor. “Listen, I’m-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said, clearing his throat, avoiding Stiles’ gaze. “Erica and I go way back but not like that. She’s one of my closest friends.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his eyebrows lifting. “That’s pretty awesome, then.” Derek gave a small smile to the door, still not looking at Stiles, but Stiles still took it as a small victory. He stilled, not leaving the lift as he realized what he was doing. Since when did he search for ‘small victories’ in regards to Derek fucking Hale? 

Derek turned just enough so he could look over his shoulder, his eyebrows letting Stiles know that he was dawdling. Stiles grumbled, then quickly caught up to Derek, who was already at their door. This was going to be a long International Break, and Stiles was sure about one thing: it would be his downfall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Leni for making [this graphic!](http://haleinski.co.vu/private/66831093520/tumblr_mw6hx610Th1srurql)

Dinner was more formal than Stiles liked. His blazer was hot and itchy, and he didn’t like seafood, which was the main course. He ate his vegetable, and his salad, but he didn’t want to touch the salmon with a ten-foot pole. Seated between Joe Hart and Theo Walcott, Stiles didn’t have much to say to the Manchester City and Arsenal players considering Stiles had scored on Joe, who was the goalie for City, and he had yet to play against Theo. Stiles kept laughing to himself, because for some reason he kept thinking about the episode of the IT Crowd when they talked about Theo and ‘walking the ball in’. It was hard to keep from laughing, and Stiles knew he was being rude, but most of his teammates were down the large, long table where he couldn’t even hear their conversations. Whose idea had it been to do assigned seating for a dinner, anyway? 

Across from him sat Derek, because why the hell not. It wasn’t like he was already resigned to the fact that they would be spending every waking moment together. Showering before dinner had been awkward, only because both of them had insisted that the other go first. Stiles had blushed, again, because he thought about Derek going into the bathroom after him on the bus. It had probably smelt like come, and to that Stiles flat out made Derek shower first. There was no way he was subjecting Derek to that horror again. 

Stiles wished he had better control of his cheeks reddening. It was splotchy and obvious when he blushed, and not attractive at all if he was being completely honest. When he looked up from his plate, where he had been pushing his salmon around with his fork, he saw Derek watching his hand move. Stiles stilled, putting his fork down, his eyes not leaving Derek. Eventually, Derek looked up at him, and mouthed ‘No salmon?’ at him. Stiles made a face, then pushed his plate away from himself. Derek pointed down at his plate, where his vegetables sat practically untouched. He made a movement with his fork that went from Stiles’ plate back to his. Wide- eyed, Stiles nodded his head. Yes, he wanted to switch food, he wanted all the vegetables in exchange for his untouched salmon. 

Only, he didn’t know how to go about it without everyone seeing what they were doing. While Stiles was busy worrying about it, Derek reached forward and grabbed Stiles’ plate, then switched them. He didn’t even scrape one thing onto the other. Stiles stared open mouthed at him, but then closed it when he realized it looked like he didn’t want Derek to do it. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said. Derek only shrugged in answer as he began cutting up the salmon. 

After dinner, everyone stood around mingling. It was an awkward affair to Stiles. He mostly hung by Stevie, talking with the Liverpool players, but Stevie moved around. He didn’t seem to mind Stiles clinging to him, not after their earlier talk on the bus. Steven spent a fair amount of time talking with Frank Lampard and Ashley Cole, who were both from Chelsea. With them was a younger player around Stiles’ age named Jackson Whittemore. It was his first time being called up as well, so Stiles thought, for a moment, that maybe they’d have something in common. 

He was dead wrong. Jackson was worse than any Manc Stiles had ever come in contact with. As a Red, Stiles didn’t have much in terms of like when it came to Chelsea as a team, what with the past couple of years with Chelsea taking multiple players from Liverpool, but still, they weren’t on the level of rivalry that United had with Liverpool; but Jackson made Stiles think twice about that. The epitome of spoiled, Jackson regaled his youth at the Chelsea Academy, about his loan to Barcelona B when he broke into the first team, how he got to play with the greats such as Messi and Xavi. It left a stale taste in Stiles’ mouth. He had to police his facial expressions as Jackson talked about himself like he was the next Fernando Torres, which made Stiles want to punch Jackson in the face. 

Stiles never realised how violent he was until he started talking to Jackson. Fernando Torres was a sore spot for not only Stiles, but for most Liverpool fans. Torres was the sweetheart of Liverpool, everyone loved him and supported him. He left Liverpool during a January transfer season, on the last day, betraying the love and trust of his fans and teammates. Not only that, but then he had a press conference that night, on the deadline, where he put down his former team, forever breaking the bond he had with the fans. Stiles was still bitter about it, because he had looked up to Torres, believed him to be loyal, like Steven Gerrard. 

So Jackson saying he was the next Torres made Stiles’ blood boil, mostly because Jackson now played with Torres. Stiles supposed it hurt because his name was mentioned by pundits and commentators alike next to Torres’, because he and Steven had the same bond on the field as Torres and Gerrard had. Similarly, the fans had taken to Stiles the same way as they took to Torres, chanting his name and putting their all behind backing him. At matches, a lot of people wore Stiles’ kit with his name and number on their backs. He didn’t like thinking about it, it put a lot of pressure on him, but at the same time it warmed his heart. 

Next to him, Stiles could tell that Steven felt the same as Stiles did. Their arms were touching, and Stiles looked to him, his eyes pleading Steven to save him from the never-ending conversation about Jackson’s greatness. He probably thought he shat pure gold. Steven gave Stiles a nudge, then excused both himself and Stiles from the three Chelsea players. 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles mumbled under his breath. “Do I ever sound like that?” Stiles asked. Steven laughed, shaking his head. 

“No, lad, because you don’t need to talk about yourself for people to know how good you are.” Stiles grinned, knowing Stevie had just put Jackson down. “If you have to tell people all your accomplishments, then.” Steven shrugged, then winked at Stiles as they walked towards a group of ex-Liverpool players. Andy Carroll and Stewart Downing had played for Liverpool recently, but had been sold off to other teams. It happened sometimes, but Stiles didn’t like thinking about it. He hoped that Liverpool wanted to keep him, like how Steven never left to go anywhere else. Sometimes, though, players were sold off even if they didn’t want to leave, like Xabi Alonso had been to Real Madrid. Other times, players left if they wanted, like Torres. Transfer seasons were a crazy time, full of rumors and stress, for both the fans and the team themselves. They never knew who would be staying and who would be going. Luckily, they didn’t have to think about that until January. 

After about an hour and a half of mingling, Stiles slipped out of the room. He made his way back up to his room where the first thing he did was change into his pajamas. Stiles could see the headline now: International Footballer Homesick, Crawls Into Bed and Calls Home Every Night. He didn’t care, though, he burrowed under the covers of his bed, then called his dad. It wasn’t too late, but he had worked the morning shift, so Stiles wasn’t too surprised when he didn’t pick up. He ended up leaving a message, though. 

“Hey, Dad, I’m safely in London, just got back from a big to-do dinner. I miss you, love you.” It was short, but he was sure his dad would hear how true it was. Next, Stiles attempted to Skype Scott. Stiles beamed when he picked up the call immediately, his face appearing on Stiles’ screen.

“Shouldn’t you be partying it up right now?” Scott teased. Stiles stuck his tongue out, then shrugged. 

“I just got back, actually, I was down there for a while. Mingling with Jackson Whittemore.” Stiles made a face, which is all Scott needed to know about the situation. 

“I know how that goes, man. I’ve heard he is a top-notch douche.” 

“Well, whoever you heard that from is fucking right, okay. This guy is just so fucking-” Stiles stopped mid-sentence because Derek came in, stopping at the door. “I gotta go, man, sorry it was so short.”

“Miss you,” Scott said, making a kissy noise. Stiles rolled his eyes, but smiled before he hung up the phone. As soon as he did, he texted _roommate was back, didn’t want to be rude._ to Scott. In return, Stiles got a _no prob, night bro_ from Scott. By the time Stiles even looked up from his phone, Derek was in the bathroom with the door closed. Stiles turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he found a movie to put on in the background. Derek wasn’t in the bathroom long and came out wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. Stiles kept his eyes on the TV, at least that was what he attempted to do until his eyes betrayed him. He stared at Derek, his eyes starting low, then eventually made it to his face. 

“What do you want to-”

“I don’t care what’s on,” Derek said as he put his clothes away, then got out what he was wearing the next day. Stiles looked around his bed where his things were strewn about carelessly. He looked back at Derek, watching him pull down the covers to his bed. Derek looked up at him, his eyebrows lifting again. Stiles turned his attention back at the TV, hugging his pillow up to his chest. He wished he were at home. 

He ended up landing on a movie, he didn’t even know what it was called, it didn’t matter, he wasn’t really in the mood to watch anything, but he didn’t want silence. Eventually he looked back at Derek, who had a book in his lap, which he was reading. Stiles leaned over in attempt to see what it was, despite the fact that he could never see the cover from the angle he was at. Derek lifted the book, letting him see it. 

“You read Palahniuk?” Stiles asked. The look Derek gave him quieted Stiles. The only book by him Stiles knew was _Fight Club_ , but this was something called _Invisible Monsters_. 

“Do you read?” Derek asked, to which Stiles’ jaw dropped. 

“Yes,” Stiles hissed, turning his head back towards the TV. “I read.”

“What do you read?” Derek asked incredulously. Stiles bit the inside of his mouth, trying to think of a book he hadn’t read in school. 

“Harry Potter,” he said, sitting up straighter. Derek didn’t look amused. “What? That’s a book.” 

“Everyone has read Harry Potter, though,” Derek told him. Stiles shrugged. 

“It’s still a book.” 

They were silent after that, which made Stiles feel trapped. He didn’t like Derek or his book. Eventually, Stiles switched off the TV, then turned off his lamp. He’d rather lay there in the dark, pretending to sleep than sit in silence any longer. Not even a minute after Stiles turned off his light Derek did the same. Stiles wondered, as he looked at his phone, if Derek really wanted to go to bed at 9:35pm or if he had turned off the light just because Stiles had. Stiles lay there for forty minutes before he gave up on sleep. 

“Stop moving,” Derek’s voice called out through the darkness. Stiles rustled his sheets on purpose, making more noise than was necessary, which made Derek sigh. “Do you need to turn the air up or something?”

“No,” Stiles said petulantly. The room was actually a decent temperature. “I can’t get comfortable.” 

“Hotel beds are like that. Try counting sheep,” Derek mumbled as he shifted in bed as well, his voice becoming louder like he turned towards Stiles. Stiles tossed himself onto his back, frowning. He didn’t like sleeping in hotels, he decided. The fan didn’t stay on and there wasn’t really any white noise for him to fall asleep to. 

“Would you kill me if I played a fan noise on my phone?” Stiles asked. Derek didn’t say anything for a while before he moved again, sounding like he sat up in bed. 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said as he walked into the bathroom. Stiles found a nine-hour-long video on YouTube of a fan background noise. As soon as it started playing, he felt more comfortable. When Derek came back in, he got back into bed without a word. Stiles fell asleep a short time after that. 

He woke up to the sound of Derek’s alarm going off. Groaning, Stiles lay in bed as Derek shuffled around the room. Eventually, Derek stood over Stiles with his hands on his hips. 

“If you want to stretch before Erica’s retribution from leaving yesterday, you should get up.”

“Ugh,” Stiles let out as he sat up. Derek looked ready to go, with his bed made and everything. Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek, who went back to reading his book as he waited. Stiles got dressed, brushed his teeth, then attempted to make his hair not look like a bird nested in it throughout the night. He failed at his attempt, but he decided it would be fine. 

They grabbed a light breakfast, then had someone drive them over to St. George’s Park, where the national team trained. They barely got done with stretching, where they used each other to lean on so they could stretch properly, before Erica appeared with a smirk plastered across her face. 

“Surprised you actually showed up,” she quipped. 

“Wouldn’t want to incur your wrath,” Derek said only loud enough for Stiles to hear. Stiles’ gaze met Derek’s as he smiled. Derek was okay when around other people, he liked his sense of humor. It was only when he was alone that he seemed to be a fucking dickbag. 

“Alright, so why were you both out yesterday, really?” Erica asked, looking between the two of them. Stiles looked to Derek to see if he should tell the truth. Derek waited for Stiles’ cue, it seemed, so Stiles told her exactly what happened. 

“I needed to go for a run, hadn’t read the packet. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to go out, so Derek came and got me.”

“Aww, Derbear-” 

“Don’t,” Derek said, his tone full of warning. Stiles couldn’t believe she had just called Derek ‘Derbear’. It took all of his strength to keep from reacting to Erica’s nickname for Derek. 

“Are we going to get started, or-”

“Oh, okay big guy,” Erica said, looking them both up and down. “I’ve got you for fifteen, so let’s see you do some push-ups.” Her arms were crossed as she waited. Stiles exchanged a glance with Derek before they both dropped to the ground. “I’ll tell you when to stop.” Stiles swore they went on for two solid minutes without stopping. His arms were shaking and he felt sweat dripping down his nose, and training hadn’t even started yet. He was going to die. “Have you two ever played together?” Stiles made a face, a massive frown that probably used every single muscle in and around his mouth. Erica laughed at him, patting his cheek. “You are adorable, Stiles, really. Sorry for asking, I know you two haven’t.” Derek rumbled beside Stiles, his eyes cast upwards. Stiles couldn’t believe Erica was being so casual with them. He was used to trainers, well, being professional and unemotional. They yelled, they gave instruction, they didn’t pat people’s faces, especially if it was covered in sweat. 

“So we have today and tomorrow to get ready for Friday’s match against Montenegro,” Erica said, flipping her hair, which was down and curled. That was another thing Stiles wasn’t used to: Erica looked beautiful. He was used to track suits and no makeup and ponytails when there were female trainers, but Erica made her suit look good, and if Stiles liked girls, well. He’d definitely like Erica. She gave him a knowing smile, like she knew she didn’t have any effect on him whatsoever. Stiles straightened his back, hoping he wasn’t that obvious. “I want to see you two do some drills.” She tossed out a ball, and Stiles was the one to step up to it, balancing it on the top of his foot, then bouncing it up onto his knee with ease. He passed it to Derek, just to see what he would do with it. It was simple practice, messing around with the ball. Derek headed it gently, tossing it back towards Stiles, who got it to the ground by letting the ball hit his chest, then trail down his body. They moved like liquid, the ball going back and forth between them. Erica watched in silence until she wanted them to run. 

“Quicken the pace, go up the field, pass it.” Stiles ran, and Derek kicked the ball at him, a lob pass-up in the air. He hadn’t practiced like this in ages, having fun without doing repetitive drills. He was actually smiling, as was Derek, when Erica called them back over. “See how long you can keep it in the air,” she said this time, taking the ball and tossing it towards Derek. He kneed it, up and down without letting it fall before he lobbed it gently over to Stiles. Stiles caught the ball with his foot, making it come up to his head where he butted it back to Derek. They managed to keep it in the air for over a minute, which seemed so long when it was actually happening. Stiles was the one to end it, not wanting to over extend his leg when Derek overshot the ball with a head bounce. 

“Very good,” Erica said, appraising them both. By this time, others were arriving, along with Roy and Finstock. Roy walked over, seeing Stiles and Derek with a thin sheen of sweat covering them, and looked to Erica for an answer. “Stiles was nervous about today, Derek and I offered to loosen him up a bit.” If Stiles was more prideful he would have been offended. Sure, he was nervous, but he hadn’t said as much. With his hands on his hips gripping tight to his shirt, he looked to Roy, expecting to be reprimanded. 

“Well, I love the initiative, all of you. We don’t have much time before the match, so by all means, practice together, but don’t strain yourselves.” When Roy walked away, Stiles gave Erica a look. 

“I’m not nervous,” he stated, looking between the two of them. 

“Everyone’s nervous their first call-up,” Derek said with a huff. There he was again, perfectly fine as long as he didn’t talk. Stiles rolled his eyes then made his way over to Martin and Jordan, who were stretching. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, if he hadn’t started earlier, he would be an emotional wreck. He was already limber, already had his blood pumping, and was ready to start training with everyone else. He looked around, realizing that he had, in fact, needed the extra time to prepare. These were International Footballers, the best of the best in England, and now he was one of them. He had to make sure he lived up to what Roy and Brendan expected of him. 

Stiles decided to stretch again, especially his groin and hamstrings, which were always tight. Surprisingly, Derek sat down next to him, joining him in more stretching. Stiles watched Derek as his muscles moved as he stretched out. He was older than Stiles by a few years, around twenty-four or twenty-five, Stiles couldn’t remember. He was brought back to the present by the sound of a whistle, courtesy of Finstock, who would apparently be running the training session. 

The session itself lasted three hours. They did drills, which was expected, but then Stiles was surprised when they played a five-a-side, a mini-game where there were five players per team. They did it multiple times, with some of the team sitting out for it, watching, switching teams every ten minutes. Stiles supposed it was to watch how players did together, who worked well and who didn’t. Roy was probably trying to figure out his starting eleven for the match on Friday. Stiles was reminded of trials back when he was in Academy, to see if you were good enough to play for Liverpool or not. It was nerve wracking, but Stiles managed to score twice in the four times he played. He was exhausted after training, and most of the team stayed in the locker rooms after to shower and sit in the sauna. 

It felt good, sitting and relaxing after a good training session. The team as a whole was going to a late lunch together, before resting until they had another night training session. Stiles wanted to nap in his afternoon off, but he realized he probably wouldn’t have time to. In the sauna, Stiles sat between Martin and Jordan, where once more Derek sat across from him. It was hard to see him through all the steam, but Stiles could see enough that he was glad of the steam, because his reddened face was probably hidden. That, and after a hot shower and running around for three hours, Stiles was almost positive his skin was entirely red from the blood rushing to the surface. 

He didn’t talk, just sat there trying to rest before everyone seemed to move back to the locker room. It was like they moved in a herd, all together. Stiles supposed since the team would be together for just about a week nonstop, that they would be spending every waking moment together. Also, because both matches they would be playing on the International Break were at Wembley, in London, that they wouldn’t be moving hotels the entire time. He would be living with Derek for the duration. Stiles supposed it wasn’t all that bad, considering he could have had to deal with Jackson for a week. That thought alone made Stiles shudder. 

He dressed, then got into the shuttle bus that would take them back to their hotel. He shared a row with Steven, which had Stiles smiling. He loved his Skipper, and he knew that having him be both the captain of Liverpool and England was helpful to the transition from League play to International. 

“Good first session,” Stevie said, patting Stiles on the knee. “Roy looked impressed. You may get to start on Friday.” 

“You think?” Stiles asked, surprised. “I mean, there’s Rooney, and Jackson-”

“Jackson didn’t score, did he?” Stevie smirked. “Nah, lad. You’ve got this.” Stiles knew that Stevie would be starting, since he was the captain, but he wasn’t really sure about the rest of the team. Roy was one that had a lot of really good players to choose from, so it depended on today and tomorrow’s sessions to tell who would be playing and who would be warming the bench. 

“Thanks, Skipper,” Stiles said, using a ‘Skipper’ instead of ‘Captain’. It made Steven smile at him, which made Stiles feel even better about his chances on Friday. 

Back at the hotel, Stiles collapsed on his bed as soon as he and Derek entered their room. They had an hour before they were leaving to go to the luncheon, and Stiles really wanted to nap. 

“What if I just stayed here,” Stiles said into his pillow. 

“I wish we could, but...” Derek trailed off as he fell into his own bed, burying his face into his own pillow. Stiles closed his eyes, not at all surprised to have the view from the sauna come to mind. Stiles grunted to himself, wishing it away. What he didn’t need in his life was to have a jerk off fantasy about Derek while he was in the room. Actually, he shouldn’t have them about Derek to begin with. Stiles shifted where he lay, bending a leg so his hard-on wouldn’t be pressed against the bed. He refused himself the friction in hopes that he could make it go away without dealing with it in the bathroom. 

Stiles concentrated on his own breathing in attempts to calm down his body, which was pumping with adrenaline. It wasn’t uncommon to get hard after a session, but usually showering around a bunch of guys that Stiles worked with killed the need to jack off. Apparently not now, though. Stiles groaned again to himself, frustrated. Beside him, Derek laughed. 

“Just go take care of it, Stiles,” Derek mused. Stiles opened his eyes wide to find Derek staring at him. “I was a teenager, too, you know.” Stiles grumbled at him. 

“I’m not going to do that,” Stiles insisted. Derek lifted an eyebrow at him. “What? I can control myself just fine.”

“Like on the bus?” Derek joked. Stiles felt a rush pass through his body as all the blood seemingly went straight to his dick. Derek saying it out loud made Stiles bite his lip. “Who doesn’t get hard after playing, really?” Derek said nonchalantly. “Or after they score, or after anything really.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles said, sighing. Derek shrugged from where he lay down on his back. Stiles’ eyes couldn’t help but pass down his body where a bulge was apparent. Stiles’ mouth dried as he licked his lips. “You need to go to the bathroom yourself,” Stiles said, trying to make sure his voice didn’t quiver. How fucking weird would it be if they both just jacked off? Was that a thing they could do? Again, Derek shrugged. 

“Don’t need to go to the bathroom to jack off,” Derek supplied. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, because this could be a thing that happens. Only, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure he should. Derek wasn’t gay, at least he didn’t think he was. Derek could be thinking about his girlfriend, if he had one, and Stiles would definitely be thinking about Derek. 

He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t jack off on the bed next to Derek while thinking about him. Not when Derek would be thinking about someone else. Stiles wouldn’t let himself go through that. Stiles got up off his bed, then went into the bathroom so he could be alone. It would okay if he were straight, he told himself, if he hadn’t been thinking about _Derek_. Stiles turned on the faucet, splashing his face. It would be fine, it wouldn’t matter if his dick would just stop with the Derek hard-ons. 

“This is horseshit,” Stiles said to himself as he palmed at his erection through his shorts. Derek was obviously okay enough with his sexuality that it didn’t matter if he jacked off alone or not, but Stiles wasn’t. Stiles was scared. He was scared about others finding out, about the loss of his career, and about the backlash from his teammates. Sure, some would be okay with it, but others would never look at him the same way again. He knew that Daniel Agger was a part of Red Card Homophobia in Denmark, but he was one of the few Stiles knew about that supported the initiative against homophobia. 

Stiles’ erection flagged as his paranoia climbed. He didn’t want to sabotage his career to jack off next to Derek fucking Hale, he wouldn’t do it. When Stiles emerged from the bathroom, Derek was sitting up in bed with his hands in his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, his voice quiet. “I didn’t mean to-”

“You’re fine,” Stiles said, not making eye contact. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I’m not used to casually jacking off with my teammates,” Stiles attempted to joke, but it fell flat. “Did you-”

“No,” Derek admitted. “I couldn’t after you ran,” he said softly. “I thought-”

“Thought what?” Stiles asked, his question heavy. He held his breath, wondering if he had given himself away, if Derek knew Stiles had been thinking about him. Instead of answering, Derek shrugged as he shook his head. 

“Nevermind, it’s almost time to head downstairs.” Tension hung heavy in the room as they changed clothes without another word. They exchanged their shorts for track pants and new shirts. They had to wear the Three Lions track jacket out, making them all look the same. 

At lunch, Stiles didn’t sit with Derek, which was good. He needed a break from him, needed some space. Stiles sat with he Gooners of the England squad, also known as the Arsenal players Theo Walcott and Jack Wilshere, along with Joe Hart. The tables were small, four-person tables, so it was easier to keep up with conversations. It was weird, considering for the first time in Stiles’ memory, Arsenal was at the top of the table. Joe joked, pointing out that it was also the first time that Liverpool had been there since the beginning of the season. It was a truthful jib, but Stiles shot back a quip about Manchester City’s result so far in the season, landing them mid-table for the first time in years. In the past five years it had been City and United that ruled the top of the table, but now Arsenal and Liverpool were basically neck in neck. 

Stiles got to order what he wanted, which was good because he was starving after having no protein the night before. He hoped they didn’t have another dinner like that, because he hated not having options to choose from. Throughout the lunch, he glanced Derek’s way, where he was seated with the other United players. Stiles was glad he didn’t catch Derek’s eye because he wasn’t ready yet. Things were weird, but not unbearably so. 

Fans were gathered outside of the restaurant as they left, and most of the team walked right past and onto the bus, but not Stiles. Stiles stopped as soon as he heard his name called. One fan congratulated him on being called up, and another asked for him to sign a shirt of his. Stiles was surprised that someone had a kit with them, so he couldn’t say no. Before he knew it, he felt someone standing next to him, with their hand on his arm. He thought at first it would be Stevie, but it was Derek. 

“Come on, don’t want to hold up the bus,” Derek said. Stiles nodded, but reached for another kit that was shoved towards them. A fan was begging Derek for his signature as well, but he was refusing. Stiles was fine with signing things, until he heard someone call out _Scouse bastard!_ in the crowd. Both he and Derek looked up, then. Stiles, a bit shocked, was going to ignore it, but then someone else added in _Fucking Manc!_ along with it. Derek’s jaw clenched as he gripped Stiles’ arm. They should get to the bus, Stiles knew, but he hadn’t expected hate between Liverpool and United when they had England’s crest on. He supposed it was his naivety, but he let Derek guide him towards the bus all the same. 

It was an odd feeling, knowing that the fans didn’t get along. Stiles himself didn’t like United on principle, but he had never really come across the fans together in a confined place. Once on the bus, he and Derek sat down together without realizing it. They weren’t the last on the bus, but they were close to it. Stiles thought about all the times he called United players Mancs with a hint of disdain, and now, after he played with them without the crests dividing them, he realized what Steven meant about being able to put aside the differences. It really was different, wearing the same kit. 

“Wearing the England crest is different,” Stiles said, barely audible as the bus began to move. Beside him, Derek nodded his head in agreement. 

“It is,” he answered just as low. “Sometimes, it is still hard to separate them, though.” Stiles thought about how the guys from United sat together at lunch, about how Theo and Jack sat together as well. Old habits were hard to break. He completely forgot about their awkward moment back at the hotel for a moment as he got lost in his own mind, thinking about the fan who said the word Scouse with hate behind it. Stiles mostly came in contact with fans who liked Liverpool not the opposite. It was definitely a different experience. 

After their free time, which Stiles spent napping, their evening training session was much different than the earlier one. This was all drills, running while passing, shooting practice, and repetitive motions. Stiles was exhausted by the end, and didn’t want to leave the hot shower afterwards. With his hair dripping wet, he climbed onto the bus, taking a seat next to Derek once more without even thinking about it. Once the bus started moving, Stiles felt himself drifting, his head lolling to the side. By the time they got to the hotel, he was jerked awake by Derek moving. Apparently, Stiles had fallen asleep on his shoulder and Derek hadn’t pushed him off. 

Groggy, Stiles followed Derek up to their room by holding onto the back of his track jacket. The second training session had completely wiped him out. As soon as they were in their room, Stiles started stripping down. He wanted to be in his bed, he wanted to pass out. Stiles heard Derek chuckle, but he didn’t have the energy to say anything. Hugging his pillow close, Stiles fell asleep without even needing the fan video. 

The next day’s training session was almost all different groups of players against each other, rotating in and out of mini-matches. Stiles was sore from the day before, but spent a lot of time stretching out, not wanting an injury from strain to keep him from the match the next day. He scored again, this time in three of the five matches he played in. Again, he napped afterward. 

It was something about playing with a different team, about being away from home, that made him want to sleep all the time. Luckily for Stiles, Derek was a very quiet roommate. He read, or watched something on his iPad with his headphones in. Stiles barely had any time alone, but he didn’t really need it because Derek wasn’t at all invasive. 

The night before the match, at another formal dinner, Stiles sat next to Derek. It had been unintentional, but Stiles supposed he was just getting used to being near him. If Derek had wanted Stiles to sit somewhere else, he didn’t mention it. At the dinner, Roy was going to reveal the starting eleven, which wouldn’t officially be released until the following day around an hour before the match began, but he wanted those who were starting to get a good night’s rest. 

Stiles held his breath as he waited, his hands gripping tight to his slacks on his thighs. He let out noise when he felt Derek’s hand over his, but then relaxed as Derek’s thumb tapped encouragement against the back of Stiles’ hand before he removed it. Instead of looking at Roy, Stiles looked at Derek, his eyes searching, wondering. 

What did that mean? Derek’s hand over his was definitely meant to be soothing, but Stiles didn’t know what it meant between them, if anything. Derek wouldn’t break eye contact with Stiles, the two of them sitting there as Roy gave a speech about how well everyone had played and how hard the decision was for who should start. It wasn’t until Roy was halfway through naming the defenders, that Derek broke eye contact with him. 

“Steven Gerrard, Danny Welbeck, Frank Lampard, and Derek Hale,” Roy called out, giving the names of the midfielders. Stiles beamed, looking at Derek once more. Derek’s eyes caught his, and Stiles couldn’t help but reach out and pat him on the arm. It was simple, and everyone did it to each other at some point, but with Derek it felt different. Stiles supposed he was thinking too much about it, worried about every movement he made, but Derek was still smiling, it didn’t falter. “And for our two forwards, we have Wayne Rooney and Stiles Stilinski.” 

Stiles couldn’t help himself as he stood up, he was so surprised that he covered his mouth as well, pure shock showing across his features. Derek was up as well, with his arms around Stiles, along with Daniel Sturridge, who was seated on the other side of him, both of them happy for Stiles, even though Stiles probably took Daniel’s spot in the the lineup. 

After that, Stiles was too wired to sleep. Eventually they made it up to their room, where Stiles called his dad and then Scott. He would be playing for England, an actual qualifying match, one that, if he scored, he could help bring England to the World Cup. The pressure was immense, but Stiles knew he could handle it; he had to.


	4. Chapter 4

Playing at Wembley Stadium was like no other place Stiles had ever been to. Listening to not only the English National Anthem, but also Montenegro’s, before the match started was eye opening. With multiple tiers, Wembley was huge in comparison to Anfield. It held more than twice as many as Liverpool’s stadium, and Stiles couldn’t look away from the sheer amount of people. As he got into position, waiting for the whistle to blow, he thought about how his father was watching from home. Unlike when he played for Liverpool, Stiles did not help Steven kick off. Wayne Rooney and Steven did the kick-off, while Stiles stood around the edge of the centerline circle. When the whistle blew, Stiles was off, dashing towards Montenegro’s goal box. 

Stiles watched out for openings, but even though England held most of the possession, Stiles wasn’t able to even get a shot on goal. He was frustrated, but he wouldn’t let it show. It wasn’t until somewhere around the forty minute mark that Stiles got a pass from Derek, landing him his first shot on goal. The goalie caught it, but the rush it gave Stiles had his confidence boosted enough that when the whistle blew for half-time, Stiles was sure he could get a goal. 

The second half went faster than the first, which wasn’t always the case. Most of the time, Stiles felt as though second halves dragged on, but three minutes into the half Wayne Rooney scored the first goal of the match. Stiles joined in on the celebration, which was a massive team pile, but he was still determined to get his own goal. 

In the sixty-second minute, a player for Montenegro got an own goal, meaning they scored in their own net but England ended up with the goal on their score sheet, making it 2-0 until, ten minutes later, Montenegro scored on Joe Hart. Stiles could tell they were having a hard time in the midfield while Roy shouted from the sidelines, wanting a third goal just to be safe. 

Seven minutes later, Stiles saw his opening. He aimed, kicking the ball towards the net. He was positive that it was in, just on the edge of the goal, but it hit the woodwork, ricocheting back towards Derek, who had been running up alongside of Stiles. Derek scored, chipping the ball, hitting the back of the net while the goalkeeper fell to the ground in the opposite direction. Stiles stood there in shock as Derek kept running, with his hands in the air. Eventually, Stiles snapped out of it, joining his teammates in surrounding Derek. 

"Oh my god," Stiles said as he managed to get close to Derek, enough that he could wrap his arms around him. He was fighting with the others and had Wayne Rooney and Steven Gerrard pressed against him as they congratulated Derek by patting his back and hugging him. Stiles stayed near, with his hand on Derek's side as they walked back towards the center line to start over. 

"Thanks for the assist," Derek said, his hand on Stiles' neck for a moment before dropping, his eyes on Stiles' lips. Stiles licked them, then laughed as he looked away. He couldn't handle Derek's gaze on him. 

"The goal post was good to you," he joked. Stiles felt elated for Derek getting a goal, but in the end he wished it had been him. It was almost his goal, but now Derek's name would go on the score sheet. It was petty, but Stiles couldn't help but feeling that way. 

"The goal post won't get the assist, though," Derek said, nudging Stiles in the shoulder before they separated. When the whistle blew again, Stiles was determined to get what he wanted. He ended up getting two more shots on goal, but the goalkeeper kept catching them. Stiles screamed in frustration as the time ticked down. England was winning, but he wouldn't get his goal. 

At the eighty minute mark, Derek was subbed off for Jack Wilshere, and James Milner for Steven with three minutes left on the clock. The closer to the end of a match, the more desperate things became. More tackles, more fouls happened around the ninety minute mark in almost every game. This one was no different. In stoppage time, someone went down in the Montenegro box, getting England a penalty kick. It hadn't been discussed before the match who would be taking penalty kicks, if anyone, during the match, so they looked towards Roy. Stiles assumed it would be Wayne Rooney, who had a good history when it came to penalty kicks. 

Only, Roy was pointing at Stiles. He made sure that Roy meant him by pointing at himself, his eyebrows lifting upwards. The clock was ticking, and they were three minutes into stoppage time when Stiles stepped up to the penalty box. Penalty kicks were given when a foul was committed within the penalty box, giving the fouled team a one-on-one chance with the goal to score. 

Stiles had never taken a penalty before in his life. Sure, he practiced them in training with everyone else, but at Liverpool, Steven was the penalty taker, had been for years. Stiles licked his lips as he placed the ball on its mark, then stepped away from it. His heart was hammering in his chest as he squared his shoulders, then looked towards the bench. His eyes fell on Derek, who was standing with his hands cupped around his mouth. He was shouting something, but Stiles couldn't tell what it was. Stiles' legs were strained, the muscles sore from running for ninety minutes, but he hoped they wouldn't fail him now.

As he moved towards the ball to shoot, Stiles told himself that no matter what the outcome, England won the match. This would just be the icing on the cake. No matter what, England would win. Stiles closed his eyes after he sent the ball flying towards the net, not able to handle the disappointment if he didn't make it. Only the crowd erupted with shouts of happiness, booming throughout the stadium. Stiles had scored, once more the goalkeeper had dived the wrong way. Within seconds, Stiles was bombarded by his fellow players. The whistle blew, signifying the end of the match. 

Stiles couldn't breathe because of everyone jumping on him. England was one step closer to qualifying for the World Cup with a win, bringing them to second in their group. If they won the next match, against Poland in a few days, then they'd qualify. Stiles clung to whoever had their arms around him. He was covered in sweat, but he couldn't stop grinning. 

Once they were back in the locker rooms, Stiles realized that he had been clinging to Derek on the field. Derek had run out onto the field after the whistle blew, joining the rest of the team in celebrating the win. Stiles hadn't realized it was him, but he reddened as he stripped down out of his clothes. 

During matches, Stiles wore a jockstrap. It wasn't required, and players could either wear Under Armor, jock straps, or nothing at all. Stiles didn't know how some could go commando, but it never surprised him when everyone took off their kits that there were some players that actually did go without wearing anything at all. Derek, Stiles realized, was one that wore Under Armor. Sometimes, mostly in the winter, Stiles wore their tops, to help keep himself warm when it snowed during matches, but he didn't like their underwear. Jockstraps kept him confined, didn't let him bounce around as he ran, but didn't restrict like the underwear did. 

It was just something that, being a footballer, Stiles was used to seeing. Guys walking around naked in the locker room never affected him, really, despite the fact that dicks were what got him hot and heavy. Well, until he watched Derek change. He had been avoiding it, really, knowing that if he watched Derek once, he wouldn't be able to stop. A lot of the guys stood around, talking to each other naked all the time. It was completely normal to talk as they showered as well, and today Stiles was bombarded with conversations by his naked teammates. Stiles slipped off his jockstrap, tossing it aside as he headed for the shower himself, trying not to think about Derek's ass as he walked in front of Stiles. 

It was just Stiles' luck that Derek stood next to him in the showers. Stiles grabbed the soap, lathering himself up, deciding to just look down at himself instead of at Derek. 

"That was a great pen," Derek said as he dipped his hair under the water. Stiles nodded his head as he mimicked Derek, letting the water cascade over his body. Derek was rubbing himself down with shower gel, and Stiles had to close his eyes to keep from reacting to it. "You look about ready to collapse, though."

"I'm exhausted," Stiles said as he let his head hang down, his chin resting against his chest. "And sore." 

"We have tomorrow to rest," Derek pointed out. "I doubt we will start against Poland, especially you since you played the whole match." Stiles pouted, because he wanted to start against Poland, too. But he supposed he couldn't expect that, not when there were twenty people called up on the squad. 

Once they were dressed and back on the bus, Stiles slumped down in his seat. He was surprised when Martin Kelly sat down next to him, meaning that Derek walked right past to sit in another row. Stiles craned his neck to see where Derek was sitting, a few rows back, with Daniel Welbeck. Stiles tried not to let it show outwardly that he was disappointed, especially when Martin was his friend. He talked with Martin the entire way back to the hotel, where they talked about both of their chances in starting against Poland. 

"Well, Roy has been consistent in his Defense lately, I doubt I will, but you did good today with that assist, I bet you'll at least be on the bench." Stiles shrugged in response. 

“I don’t know, Roy and Brendan talked about my condition, about how I get knocks when I am tired, I don’t think I will get another chance.” 

“Maybe not this go around, but you’ll probably get called up again for the friendlies in November.”

Again, Stiles shrugged. His mood was a weird one, riding the high of the win but the low of knowing he probably wouldn’t play against Poland. Once they got to the hotel, Stiles took the lift up with Martin and some others, but Derek wasn’t in it with them. Actually, Derek hadn’t come in until forty minutes after Stiles returned. He had a massive smile on his face, which fell when he saw Stiles curled up on his own bed. 

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Derek teased him. Stiles rolled his eyes, his mood soured. He got a penalty, which wasn’t the same as a normal goal. It was just him and the goalie, and the ball was placed in a spot. All he did was fake the goalkeeper out, which way he was going to kick. Derek got the real goal, not him. 

Stiles moved along with the dip of the mattress as Derek sat down on his bed. Stiles closed his eyes as Derek placed his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He leaned into the touch, wishing he was home with his dad, and with Scott. Stiles could feel the heat of Derek’s thigh against his back as they sat there in silence. 

“I just want to go home,” Stiles admitted. “Not in the mood for anything.” 

It was hard, saying how he felt. Homesickness didn’t feel like an excuse, but he knew that was what it was. All he could think about was his dad, at home, alone, watching the match and how much Stiles wished he could be there. Derek sat there, his fingers raking through Stiles’ hair for a moment. Stiles let him do it, knowing it didn’t mean anything, but the feeling of it alone was worth it. Derek sighed, then got off the bed, leaving Stiles to feel the warmth of Derek dissipate almost immediately. 

“What if he came to Wembley?” Derek asked. Stiles rolled onto his back so he could watch Derek walk around the room. “Your dad, I mean.”

“How do you know about my dad?” Stiles asked. Derek gave him a small smile. 

“I mean, I assume that’s what you’re homesick about. I know that look, I used to get homesick all the time when I was first called up.” Stiles sat up, watching as Derek changed out of the track suit they traveled in, and into his own clothes. Stiles sat cross-legged on the bed with his head tilted to the side as he watched Derek pull on a pair of jeans and a v-neck shirt. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked. 

“We’ve got a free night, so me and the lads are going out, want to come?” Derek asked him. Stiles knew he meant the other United players, so he shook his head. “Suit yourself, but you should look into getting your dad down here for the match.”

“I’m probably not playing, though,” Stiles pointed out. “So then what would the point be?”

“The point would be that he’d get to watch an England match, live,” Derek said with a lifted eyebrow. “My older sister is coming to it, if you want I could see if she found someone to go with yet.” Stiles sat there for a moment, unable to wrap his head around the fact that Derek was offering for his dad, a Liverpool fan, to sit with his sister who was more than likely to be a United fan. “Or not-”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, cutting Derek off. “That’d be great. I doubt there are many tickets left. I could call him and ask if he can get off work.” 

“Alright, I’ll see you later. Try to go do something while you have the chance,” Derek said before he walked out of the room, leaving Stiles alone. Stiles lay back down on his back as he dialed his dad’s number. This time, he picked up. 

“What an amazing match, son!” His dad said enthusiastically. Stiles smiled, relaxed now that he was talking to his dad. “That penalty was beautiful to watch. You looked nervous, though.”

“Oh god,” Stiles said, covering his face with his hand. “I was so nervous, I am pretty sure my legs were shaking as I walked towards the ball.” 

“Did they discuss you doing pens before the match?”

“No, not at all,” Stiles said. “I think Stevie probably was going to do them, but he got subbed out like, three minutes before.” 

“Odd, that he was subbed right before the whistle.”

“I think he’s going to be playing both the matches,” Stiles said as he picked at the blanket on his bed. “Hey, Dad, would you be able to come down for the Poland match, maybe?” Stiles asked. 

“I’d love that, son, you know I would, but I’ve got work.” Stiles’ hopes sank, he was counting on being able to see his dad sooner than originally planned. “I’ll be there in spirit, though.” Stiles nodded his head even though his father couldn’t see him as he sniffled. “You doing okay? Who are you rooming with? You haven’t told me much.”

“I’m rooming with Derek Hale,” Stiles said, not realizing it when he smiled. 

“United Derek Hale?” His dad asked, knowing that there wasn’t another one. “They put you with a-”

“He’s not bad, actually,” Stiles admitted. “He was the one that suggested you come to the match. I’m missing home is all. Can’t wait to come back, to be honest.” 

“Are they not treating you okay?” His dad asked, worried. 

“Everything is fine, Dad,” Stiles said with a sigh. “Nothing is going on, and Stevie is here, and the other guys. I just miss you and Scott.” 

“Well it will be next week before you know it. I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” 

By the time that Derek returned, Stiles was halfway done with the first _Resident Evil_ movie, which was on a random channel. He ordered room service, which wasn’t as good as he had hoped it would be. Derek stilled as he walked in, eyeing the half-eaten burger on the tray that was brought in. 

“Don’t judge me,” Stiles said from where he was sprawled across his bed. 

“Oh, there is judgment,” Derek remarked, deadpan. 

“Dad can’t come,” Stiles stated as he kept his eyes on the movie. “Didn’t feel like going out.”

“Well, a couple of the guys are getting some poker going, if you’re interested in that,” Derek supplied as he walked into the bathroom. Stiles made a face. He wasn’t big on gambling. 

“Are you going?” Stiles asked as Derek reentered the room, this time in his sweatpants. “Guess that’s a ‘no’.”

“I’m done socializing,” Derek said as he nudged Stiles over, joining him on the bed. Stiles was confused at first, but then he realized that Derek wanted some of his pretzels. Stiles aimed the opening of the half-eaten bag towards Derek, letting him take a handful. The two of them lay there on their stomachs, watching the movie together. At first, Stiles paid attention to the movie, but eventually all he could think about was the fact that Derek was lying on his bed, and that they were touching along the entire length of their bodies, from foot to shoulder. The heat radiated between them, keeping Stiles’ mind preoccupied. A couple of times, they reached for pretzels at the same time, to which Stiles retracted his hand a little too fast, as if burned. Derek remained quiet throughout, and eventually Stiles’ eyelids grew heavy. As he drifted off, he felt Derek’s hand on his back, rubbing circles around it. Stiles leaned into the warmth, yearning for the touch of another. In the haze between asleep and awake, Stiles’ defenses were down when it came to his internal war. He let out a long breath as he let himself get closer to Derek. 

When Stiles woke up to the lights off, the TV off, and his body pressed against Derek’s, he panicked. He lay there for a long while, his eyes wide. He was facing Derek, with his arms curled against his own chest as Derek’s arm draped over him, their legs tangled together. Stiles tried to remember what happened, but he couldn’t recall how, exactly, he got in this position. 

It felt good, having Derek so close, but Stiles knew it was something he couldn’t have, not really. Derek would wake up and be angry, would push Stiles away. Half of Stiles wanted to burrow deeper against Derek, while the other wanted to rip himself away. They had a blanket over the both of them, which got Stiles’ attention. Would Derek put a blanket over them if he didn’t want it there? Why wouldn’t he just get into his own bed? 

Stiles must have been breathing heavily, because Derek stirred beside him, his body moving as it stretched. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t push away like Stiles assumed he would. Instead, Derek smiled. 

“You okay?” Derek asked, his voice raspy from sleep. Stiles found himself nodding his head, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. He was terrified. Derek’s easy, sleepy smile gave him a small comfort, though, as he closed his eyes again. Stiles relaxed against Derek, deciding that he would deal with the backlash in the morning. 

Just as expected, when Stiles awoke, he was alone in bed. His heart sank as he sat up, looking around the empty room. The sound of the shower came from the bathroom, but it didn’t quell the pit that Stiles felt in his stomach. When the water shut off, Stiles panicked, scrambling to get off the bed. Derek emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet, with a small towel wrapped around his middle, which Stiles didn’t think was fair at all. 

“Shower’s free if you want it,” Derek said easily, as though they hadn’t slept together, like there wasn’t anything different about today than there was yesterday. Stiles decided to go off of Derek’s cue and just not mention anything about it. He stalked his way into the bathroom, then showered. 

He didn’t have any plans for his free day, so when he emerged from the bathroom he half expected Derek to be gone. But he wasn’t. Derek sat on his bed, with book in hand, waiting. Stiles held tight to his towel, his shock apparent enough that Derek smirked at him. 

“The lads are all going to lunch together. I got a text, sure you did, too. So I thought I’d wait for you.” Stiles shut his mouth. 

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles said as he rustled through his things, looking for something to wear. He didn’t have to wear anything with the England crest on it on his day off, so he got to wear something more comfortable. Stiles changed in the middle of the room without thinking about it. So when he turned around and Derek was staring at him, Stiles flushed. Derek’s gaze dropped, which made Stiles smile. He felt emboldened, for a moment, about the night before. Derek hadn’t needed to sleep in his bed. He could have easily moved back over to his own after the movie was over, but he didn’t. 

“About last night,” Stiles decided to say. “Thanks.” Derek looked up at him, and it felt like a hug in itself. Derek’s smile was an addicting thing to behold. 

“Anytime,” Derek murmured. “Homesickness is best cured with... touch.” Stiles’ stomach clenched as he hoped it had been more than just his homesickness that brought Derek close to him. 

Lunch had everyone in good spirits. A group were heading to a movie afterward, but Stiles had already seen it. He ended up walking around with the other Liverpool players, feeling the lightest he had in a long time. Dinner was spent at the hotel because they had a curfew to be kept, despite the fact that they were all adults. Once they were back in their room again, Stiles wondered how the night would go. What he wanted was a repeat of the night before, to fall asleep with Derek lying against him, but as they changed clothes, Derek got into his own bed, grabbing his book once more. 

Maybe it had been a one-time thing after all. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Stiles climbed into his own bed, then flipped through all the channels. He gave up after he went through all of them twice, tossing the remote to the side as he sighed, chancing a glance at Derek. 

“Come on, then,” Derek said as if giving in on some conversation that Stiles hadn’t realize that the two of them were having. Stiles sat unmoving, trying to decide what was going on before Derek’s eyes flicked beside him, to the empty spot on the bed. Stiles practically fell out of his own bed as he made his way to Derek’s. He climbed up, walking across where Derek was seated with his legs stretched outwards, his back against the headboard. Derek chuckled at Stiles, who could have just as easily walked around the bed like a normal human being. 

Stiles sat down beside him, crossing his legs so that his knee was touching Derek’s thigh. He brought the remote with him, and started flipping the channels once more as soon as he made himself comfortable. 

“I don’t understand you,” Derek said as he continued reading. Stiles, perplexed, stilled as he waited for Derek continue. “You could just buy a movie,” Derek pointed out, looking up at the TV. “But instead you just continue trying to find something that is already on.” Derek shrugged, as if it was one of the mysteries of life. It wasn’t about the fact that they were sitting in the same bed, sharing the same space. Stiles leaned back against the headboard so that their arms were touching as well. He waited to see if Derek shifted away, but he didn’t. Stiles let himself relax as he pulled up the guide screen. He ended up choosing _Zombieland_. 

“You have a zombie fetish or something?” Derek asked as it started. His book was away and he was looking at Stiles, his eyes flickering between his lips and eyes. Subconsciously, Stiles licked his lips. 

“Something,” Stiles said as he gulped. If he just leaned in the slightest bit, they’d be kissing. Stiles wanted to kiss Derek. That thought alone had him turning his head back towards the TV. He tried to pay attention, he did. But by the time they met Tallahassee, Stiles was restless and fidgeting everywhere. 

“Stiles,” Derek said in warning, but with no heat behind it, getting Stiles to stop squirming in place. Stiles moved his legs, stretching them out, accidentally knocking them against Derek’s. 

“Sorry,” Stiles apologized. Derek rolled his eyes, and Stiles shoved at him instinctively. “I said sorry. God, you’re such a-” Derek had his hand on Stiles’ wrist within the blink of an eye, his grip tight, but not bruising. 

“I’m a what?” Derek asked, his gaze so intense that it took Stiles’ breath away. Without realizing it, they had somehow ended up lying on the bed. Derek had Stiles pinned down, which made Stiles flail. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles gasped as Derek shifted so his entire body weight was on top of Stiles. Their chests were heaving, and Stiles was pretty sure he was getting hard, but he ignored it, because he could feel Derek against him. 

“I’m the asshole?” Derek asked. “Me?” 

“Yeah!” Stiles said, moving enough so that he could get his legs out from under Derek, spreading them. Stiles held back a whimper, because Derek slid right between his legs, and he was just as hard as Stiles was. With his eyes wide, Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s thighs, hooking his feet around them. “You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“You’re a little shit,” Derek said, his voice gruff as he rolled his hips, his nose bumping against Stiles’ cheek, trailing down to Stiles’ earlobe. “Do you even know what you want?” Stiles extended his neck, turning away from Derek, exposing it as his thigh muscles tightened. He did know what he wanted, but he didn’t know how to say it. He was never able to voice it before, but with Derek pressed against him he was hit with a wave of pure need. Stiles gasped when Derek mouthed at Stiles neck, his teeth nipping at Stiles’ ear. “You are so fucking tense, Stiles.” 

Stiles moaned as Derek’s hands gripped his waist, Derek’s hips rutting against him. He let out a shaky breath as he turned his head, his lips finding Derek’s. Derek’s open mouth met his as their teeth clacked together in desperation. Stiles reached up, cupping Derek’s stubbled face in his hands so he could deepen the kiss, to not let go as he rolled his own hips, getting off on the friction. They were clothed, but it felt amazing to have Derek against him. Stiles panted against Derek’s mouth as the kiss ended and they pressed their foreheads together. 

“God fucking dammit, Stiles,” Derek rasped. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted to do that the past couple of days?” Stiles shook his head as he kissed Derek again. He didn’t want to stop now that he had started. “You’re infuriating.” 

“I hate you,” Stiles said, not meaning it in the slightest as Derek bucked his hips, his cock pressing against Stiles’ taint. Stiles’s back arched, wanting more contact. His hands scrambled, yanking at Derek’s shirt, wanting it off of him. “You and your fucking hips, and your thighs,” Stiles mumbled as he managed rid Derek of his shirt. Derek laughed, his hand disappearing underneath Stiles’ shirt, his fingers trailing over the line of hair on Stiles’ stomach that led down beneath his sweatpants. Derek was on his side now, his concentration on Stiles’ stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric. Stiles shut his eyes, his hands moving to his own chest as he gave in to the feeling of Derek’s hands on him. Derek’s mouth teased at Stiles’ neck as he gripped Stiles’ erection in his hand, jacking him slowly. Stiles flexed his toes, reveling in the feeling of someone else’s hand jerking him off. Eventually, Derek’s lips made their way back to Stiles’. 

As they kissed, Stiles reached out, his hand against Derek’s bare chest, his thumb playing at a nipple. Derek moaned into Stiles’ mouth, rolling on top of him once more, rubbing their erections together through the fabric. Stiles gasped, wanting the friction to stop, needing them to be naked. His chest was heaving as he rid himself of his shirt, his eyes meeting Derek’s when their kiss ended in order for it to happen. Derek’s lips were red, and his pupils were blown, he wanted this as much as Stiles did, and that made him harder. 

“Too many clothes,” Stiles hissed as he rutted against Derek shamelessly. Derek’s smirk hit Stiles like a ton of bricks, making him bite down on his lower lip. 

“Your mouth looks-” Derek stopped himself, whatever he was about to say, thinking twice about it. “What are we doing?” Derek asked. 

“Making out?” Stiles asked, his legs still wrapped around Derek’s middle. “Jerking each other off.” His hand cupped Derek through his pants, fingers outlining his erection. Derek grunted, looking down at Stiles’ hand. “Isn’t that… don’t you want this?” 

“Yeah,” Derek said, his eyes on Stiles’ mouth once more. “I just wanted to make sure you did too.”

“Fuck yes, I do,” Stiles said picking his head up off the pillow it was resting on in order to kiss Derek again. “This is exactly what I want.” 

Suddenly, Derek was yanking at Stiles’ sweatpants, pushing them down his thighs. Stiles’ erection lay against his stomach, a bead of precome at the head, waiting to be stroked. Stiles watched as Derek eyed him, then licked his lips as he bent over, his tongue licking up the dollop of precome as he moaned. Stiles threw his head back, not expecting the moan that escaped from his lips as Derek took him into his mouth. Stiles bit down on his bottom lip, hard to keep his voice low. They were surrounded by their teammates on both sides, and the walls weren’t thick. 

Stiles gripped the sheets on either side of him as Derek’s head bobbed up and down. Stiles fucked upward with his hips, hitting the back of Derek’s throat. Derek stilled, his hands on Stiles’ hips, holding him down. Stiles’ hand shot to Derek’s hair, his fingers raking through it. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled through bated breath. “I didn’t mean t-”

“You’re fine,” Derek reassured him, his breath hot against Stiles’ dick as he mouthed up and down Stiles’ shaft, cradling Stiles’ balls in his hand. “I wasn’t expecting it,” he said with a lick up Stiles’ length. Stiles felt his balls tighten, his grip in Derek’s hair following suit. 

“Derek, you have to get off-” 

Derek complied, but his hand wrapped around Stiles’ length instead, jacking him fast, his wrist twisting as Stiles came, his stomach muscles twitching. 

“Fuck,” Stiles shouted as his head fell back against the pillow. Derek’s hand slid across Stiles’ stomach, smearing his come over it. Stiles panted as Derek’s lips found his once more. His mind was fuzzy, his body throbbing from his climax. Derek tasted different, now, and Stiles couldn’t help but think about how Derek’s mouth had just been wrapped around his cock. Stiles moaned into the kiss, his mouth opening for Derek as Derek shoved down his own pants, freeing his own aching, neglected cock. “Do you want me to-”

“No,” Derek said as his teeth raked across Stiles’ bottom lip, his hands grasping at Stiles’ hips. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked, his brain still short circuiting, his eyelids heavy. Derek kissed him again, this time chastely as he turned Stiles onto his side, away from Derek. For a second, Stiles panicked, thinking he was going to be fucked without prep. Derek’s hand slid down to Stiles’ stomach, calming him, as he mouthed at Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Trust me,” Derek said, and Stiles did. He nodded his head as his fingers clasped around Derek’s. “Hold your legs together.” Stiles did as Derek asked, then felt Derek’s cock press against his legs, just below his ass. Stiles whimpered at the feeling, wondering as Derek began thrusting, what it would feel like if Derek’s cock wasn’t just against his thighs. Derek groaned with each movement as he pulled Stiles closer to him. He sucked and nipped at Stiles’ skin at the base of his neck as he fucked in between Stiles’ thighs. “God, you feel so fucking good,” Derek said into Stiles’ ear, his grip tight on Stiles’ hips. Stiles moaned, as he began moving against Derek, rubbing his ass against Derek’s stomach. Derek jerked, and Stiles felt the warmth of his come between Stiles’ legs. 

Derek became limp against him, his head falling on Stiles’ shoulder. They lay there in silence as they recuperated. As the come cooled, the stickiness became too much for Stiles to bear. He shifted as he made a face, turning towards Derek just to be able to see his expression. 

“You want to wash up?” Stiles asked, even though his limbs still felt too heavy to move. Derek had been lying there with is eyes closed, his fingers circling over Stiles’ arm absentmindedly. Derek’s eyes opened lazily, as he sighed. 

“You want to shower?” He asked, unmoving. Stiles nodded his head, but still didn’t move from his spot. “Let’s go then.” Derek was the first to get up, pulling Stiles with him. He hadn’t been expecting Derek to get in with him, but that was happening, it seemed. 

The water was hot, and felt good as it cascaded down his body as he pressed against Derek’s. Under the spray, they kissed. Stiles didn’t want to stop, didn’t want Derek to let him go. He was getting hard again, and his erection was brushing against Derek’s stomach as Derek cupped Stiles’ ass. 

Stiles didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t want to think about the repercussions of messing around with Derek, not when Derek’s finger dipped between his ass cheeks, teasing at his opening. Stiles moaned, ending the kiss so he could catch his breath as he spread his legs for Derek. Derek’s hand kneaded against Stiles’ ass, cupping him between his cheeks with his full hand, the tips of his fingers pressing against the back of Stiles’ balls. He let out a low whimper as Derek’s stubble brushed against his cheek, wet and chaffing. 

“What do you want?” Derek asked him. Stiles felt like he was having an out of body experience as the water hit his back. Derek’s body heat against him had Stiles shaking as he looked into Derek’s eyes. Stiles was afraid he was going to wake up in bed, alone, covered in his own dried come like a teenager after a wet dream. Stiles laughed, because technically he still was one. He was nineteen, young for a first team professional and international player. Stiles stopped laughing when he realized Derek was waiting for him to answer. 

Instead of speaking, Stiles mimicked Derek, cupping his ass just as Derek had his own. Derek shifted, just as Stiles had, to make it easier for Stiles to press a finger against his opening. Derek lifted an eyebrow, his head lilting to the side as he leaned in for another kiss. Stiles grinned against Derek’s lips, happy for the first time in his life in regard to his sex life. Derek Hale wanted him the same way that Stiles did, and that was all that mattered to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you know, this fic is one of the most realistic fics I have written, AU wise. In doing so, I have taken on some real life issues that are usually ignored in fic, such as Internalized Homophobia and Homophobia (in Sports). If you feel like this would trigger you, or makes you uncomfortable, please don't continue reading this fic because it becomes a major part of the plotline (besides getting to the World Cup!). If you think I need to tag something, please let me know. 
> 
> As of today, this fic has reached 50k! (meaning I finished my nanowrimo!) This fic is far from over, but I wanted to thank those of you who warred with me these past 18 days, because this fic wouldn't have happened with out you! Thanks to Emy, Rachel, Sarah, Catherine, Leni, and everyone else who I got to write with! 
> 
> If you have any questions, please feel free to drop me an [ask!](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com)

Training continued to be much of the same as it was before the match against Montenegro. Stiles ran five miles on the treadmill before the team trained together, just to get his blood pumping. He hadn’t been alone at the hotel gym. Derek joined him, along with a few others. They were sweating already by the time that training started. Stiles had to show Roy that he should play in the upcoming match against Poland. 

Roy had a few forwards that he could choose from, and Stiles was the newest and youngest of all of them. During a five-a-side exercise, it was Stiles against Jackson. At one point, it got so heated that Jackson fouled Stiles, tackling him to the ground. He hadn’t been going for the ball at all and had gone spikes up into Stiles’ foot. During a match if something like that had happened, it would be an automatic card. 

Stiles sat on the ground, clutching his foot as he fought back tears. It hurt, bad, and he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to continue training. If he couldn’t train, then he wouldn’t be put on the starting eleven, and that alone had Stiles fuming. There was yelling around him as his teammates surrounded him. Stiles pushed someone’s hands away from his foot as they tried to take a look. Firm hands on his shoulders got his attention though. He looked up, his eyesight blurred from tears stinging his eyes, to find Derek looking down at him, worried. 

“Stiles, let them look at your foot,” Derek demanded, his voice firm. Stiles begrudgingly let go of his foot, not at all surprised to see a physio there. 

“Step back!” Another called out, giving Stiles breathing room. Derek followed suit with the rest of the team, but his gaze didn’t leave Stiles’. 

“Can you move your ankle?” The physio asked Stiles. He nodded his head as he put all of his weight on his wrists as his hands rest against the ground. The pain was no longer piercing, just throbbing. Stiles looked up at Jackson, who was standing there saying nothing. 

“He did it on purpose,” Stiles said to the physio, whose name was Alan Deaton. Deaton didn’t say anything as he handled Stiles’ ankle, forcing it to bend. Stiles hissed, his fingers digging into the turf. 

“I am sure it was an accident,” Deaton assured him as he helped Stiles get to his feet. “Let’s get you inside-”

“I need to train,” Stiles blurted out. “I need to play.” Deaton’s lips pursed, and Stiles knew that was the wrong thing to say. As if on cue, Stevie was by Stiles’ side, helping keep Stiles up as he stood one legged. “Stevie, I don’t want to be hurt.”

“Sometimes things happen, lad,” Steven said as Stiles put his arm over Steven’s shoulder. “Have Deaton do a look-see on you, you could be fine.”

“He did studs up,” Stiles said through clenched teeth. “He wasn’t going for the ball.” 

“I know, lad. I saw ‘m.” Steven’s gaze fell on Jackson, who was deliberately looking in another direction. “Don’t worry about that. You get yourself checked over.” 

Stiles sat on the physio table, fuming over the fact that Jackson did this to him, during a simple five-a-side training exercise. Deaton told Stiles that he wanted him to rest his foot the rest of the day, then come straight to him the next day to see how his foot was doing. 

Stiles was driven back to the hotel, with crutches to keep off his foot, where he got into bed and didn’t move until he heard the door opening a few hours later. Derek entered, looking exhausted. Stiles wished he could be on the same boat, because the only thing he felt was loathing towards Jackson. 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked as he approached. 

“Fucking phenomenal,” Stiles snapped, he knew that he was taking it out on Derek, how upset he was, but he had no way of letting out his aggression, not when he was practically bedridden for the day. That, and there was a second training session later that Stiles wasn’t allowed to go to. His foot was swollen, and he had it elevated with ice that he kept alternating on and off. 

“I’m not the one that tackled you, Stiles,” Derek said with his arms crossed. Stiles clutched the sheets around him as he looked out the window. “Don’t take this out on me.” 

“He did it on purpose,” Stiles hissed, his eyes narrowing as he turned towards Derek. “He can’t get a starting position without hurting me, so he did it.” 

“You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” Derek asked evenly. Stiles’ anger washed over him. 

“Stevie believed me,” Stiles pointed out, which got him an eye roll. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” Derek said, dismissing him. He began to walk away, but Stiles reached out, grabbing ahold of Derek’s shirt. 

“No, what the fuck was that for?” 

“He’s your captain, Stiles-”

“He’s yours, too!” Stiles shouted. 

“Rio was mine!” Derek bellowed, pushing Stiles’ hand away, then stepping out of reach. Rio Ferdinand was the captain before Steven, but Steven had held it before him. It was a heated discussion, and Stiles hadn’t realized it was a chord that could be struck with Derek. But it made sense, since Rio played for Manchester United. “Just because he is yours doesn’t mean-”

“Fucking dickbag,” Stiles muttered. “Steven’s the captain, and yeah, I look up to him. And he saw Jackson’s studs up.” Tension dissipated at Stiles’ words. 

“It was studs up?” Derek asked, his voice quiet now. Stiles nodded as he looked down at his hands. “That fucker.” Stiles attempted a smile, but he didn’t have it in him. “I didn’t see.” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, even though it wasn’t. Derek hadn’t believed him, and let Stiles know how he felt about Steven. It made sense with Derek being a United player, he’d be more inclined to be against Steven than with him. 

When Derek sat down on Stiles’ bed, his fingers raking through Stiles’ hair, Stiles was surprised to find himself leaning into the touch. They hadn’t talked about the day before, hadn’t mentioned it at all or what was happening, but Derek’s hand on him made all the tension leave his body. He wanted Derek, craved his touch and his mouth, but Derek the person, the United player, made Stiles’ hackles rise. He felt as though he was being pulled in two separate directions. 

“What did Deaton tell you?” Derek asked as his hand traveled from Stiles’ hair down his back, rubbing circles low on his back. He closed his eyes, letting himself relax against Derek’s warm touch. Stiles leaned against Derek, resting his head against Derek’s shoulder. Derek put his arm around Stiles, holding him close as his free hand reached for Stiles’, their fingers linking. 

“He said to rest today, to see him in the morning. He’d let me know if I am fit to train.” Stiles’ heart was jackrabbiting as he sat there. He wasn’t used to affection, especially from another footballer. Derek’s thumb moved back and forth over Stiles’ hand, and Stiles felt his eyelids becoming heavy. 

“Hmm,” Derek hummed. Stiles turned his head slightly, just so he could see Derek easier, which led to a kiss, Derek’s chapped lips pressing against Stiles’, his mouth opening easily for Derek. All thoughts of captains and team rivalries went out the door as Stiles breathed Derek in, his eyes closing as he kissed Derek back. Eventually, they slid down onto the bed so that they were both lying down, Derek half on top of Stiles as he lay on his back. 

They were kissing lazily, taking their time in getting to know each other’s touch. Derek’s hand rested on Stiles’ lower stomach, his hand beneath the fabric of his shirt, as Stiles’ fingers carded through Derek’s hair. At one point, Derek ended the kiss to just look down at Stiles. Stiles grinned up at him, amused at how red and swollen Derek’s lips looked. He could only imagine his looked the same but with added stubble burn. Stiles couldn’t help himself as he trailed his index finger across Derek’s lips. 

In turn, Derek nipped at it as his hand went further up Stiles’ shirt, grazing across a nipple. Stiles let out a breathy laugh as he lifted his head, kissing Derek again. He wanted more, but knew that Derek was holding back because of his ankle. That, and Stiles supposed they should actually talk about things, but he was all for putting that conversation back a little longer. 

“We should stop,” Derek said as he pulled his hand away and sat up, leaving Stiles lying there half hard and disappointed. 

“Why,” Stiles said with a pout, which got him a laugh from Derek. 

“Because, if you get more injured from a blow job I gave you, you’d regret it.” 

“I could give _you_ the blow job,” Stiles said easily, not thinking about the implications. He basically just admitted out loud that he was gay, in a way. But so had Derek. Stiles became quiet, closing his mouth as he looked away from Derek. He was still afraid of the rejection, of Derek pushing him away. 

“Hey,” Derek said, his hand reaching for Stiles’ again. Stiles met Derek’s gaze as he bit his bottom lip, worrying at it. “You don’t need to do that with me,” Derek told him. And for a moment, Stiles thought he meant reciprocate, but the Derek kept going. “I know, Stiles. And you don’t see me running away, do you?” 

“No,” Stiles said. “I just,” he took a deep breath, “don’t know what this is.” His words hung heavy in the air, but Derek’s smile cleared all sense of doubt. 

“It can be whatever we want it to,” Derek said. “Casual is fine with me.”

“Okay,” Stiles’ words stuck in his throat. Derek wanted casual, didn’t want attachment. Stiles supposed that attachment would be dangerous, given how public they both were. 

“But I know that if you really injured yourself right now and missed the match because you wanted to get off, you’d hate yourself for it.” Derek’s words rang truthful, but Stiles wanted to disregard them all the same. 

“I’m going to blow you eventually,” Stiles pointed out as he cracked a smile. 

“Now that I can’t wait for,” Derek said as he leaned in for a kiss. Stiles accepted it with an open mouth, ready and waiting for Derek. The kiss started slow and heady, but quickly intensified. Stiles’ hands roamed over Derek’s body, finding what he wanted by cupping Derek’s groin, making him moan against Stiles’ mouth. They both gasped between breaths as Stiles palmed at Derek through the fabric of his shorts. 

“We can just - just a little,” Stiles rasped as his fingers outlined Derek’s erection. Derek nodded as he reached for Stiles as well, shoving the fabric of his sweatpants out of the way, freeing him from the confines of the fabric, his fingers wrapping around him. Stiles groaned as he finally got his own hand around Derek’s cock, stroking his length. 

Stiles moved his hips, fucking upwards into Derek’s fist. Derek’s wrist stilled as his other hand held Stiles’ down so he couldn’t move. On instinct, Stiles stopped moving his own hand. 

“Don’t move,” Derek ordered. Stiles grunted his disapproval, but nodded his head anyway. There would be no touching otherwise, and now he needed Derek to keep going. 

“I won’t,” Stiles said as he licked his lips, his grip on Derek’s cock loose, but firm enough that he could easily jack him off. He hadn’t gotten to touch him before, and Stiles hadn’t really had the opportunity to give anyone else a handjob before. His cheeks flushed as he thought about how inexperienced he was, and about how fast his climax was building. He found himself holding back, trying to make himself last longer. Derek’s hand on him was too much, though, and Stiles decided to let himself go, to stop trying to hold onto his climax. 

With a stuttering gasp, Stiles came, making a mess of not only Derek’s hand, but his own shirt as well. Derek grunted as his hand moved from Stiles’ cock to his own, covering Stiles’ hand with his, which was covered in his come. Stiles shuddered as Derek showed him just how he liked it, tightening his grip at the head, holding it there for just a moment before stroking back down again only to repeat the action. Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away as Derek came, adding his own come to Stiles’. 

“Jesus,” Stiles said aloud. Derek smirked as he kissed Stiles, wiping his hand on Stiles’ already dirtied shirt. He wondered where he could get it cleaned, considering it was his training kit shirt he was still wearing. Derek tugged it over Stiles’ head, then got off the bed to head into the bathroom, leaving Stiles alone in the bedroom. 

He tucked himself back into his sweatpants, then closed his eyes as he rode the high of his climax. He was tired but didn’t want to nap unless Derek joined him. As if on cue, the bed dipped down and there Derek was, his hand resting on Stiles’ stomach once more as he settled down next to Stiles, putting his head on a pillow. With heavy-lidded eyes, Stiles turned towards Derek. 

“When is the next session?” Stiles asked. 

“Training? Or sex?” Derek asked. Stiles snorted, his eyes closed. 

“Training,” Stiles mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. His foot hurt, but he didn’t have the energy to reapply new ice. Ice could wait. 

“Not until three,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ ear, his lips brushing against Stiles’ temple. It was just past lunch, Stiles realized. He hadn’t eaten, but he supposed he could figure that out later. 

When Stiles woke up, Derek was gone. It was four, so Stiles had slept for almost three hours. He looked as his phone to see that Derek texted him: _There’s a dinner tonight, are you up for it?_

Stiles moved his foot where he lay, and even though it was sore, he was sure he could walk on it. When he tried, he winced. He walked into the bathroom so he could shower. It wasn’t that bad, so Stiles decided to go without his crutches while in the room. 

Derek arrived back an hour before the dinner, freshly showered from training. Stiles was dressed, ready to go, and sitting up in the lone chair in the room with his iPad set up so he could go online easily. The TV was on as background noise, and Stiles even made his bed out of boredom. Derek seemed to note the unused crutches in the corner, his disapproval apparent by the look he gave Stiles. 

“It isn’t that bad,” Stiles said with a shrug. “I’ll use them when I go to dinner.”

“You better,” Derek joked as he began undressing. Stiles watched him apologetically. 

“How was training?” Stiles asked as he pushed aside his iPad. 

“Good. I’m exhausted. We did mostly drills,” Derek said as he began buttoning up his dress shirt. They had to wear their blazers, along with a tie. Stiles’ tie sat on his bed, untouched. He wasn’t putting it on until he had to. A pang of jealousy hit Stiles, wishing he could have been there. He wasn’t going to start against Poland, he knew it. The match was a wash, now. “Hey, chin up. You’ll be able to train tomorrow, nothing big.” 

“Yeah, train, but I won’t get in the match.” 

“You don’t know that,” Derek pointed out. “Besides, you played the full match-”

“I need to play,” Stiles said through gritted teeth. “Now Jackson is going to.”

“Stop beating yourself up over this,” Derek said, raising his voice. “Roy may still pick you over him. You don’t know what his plans are and you don’t know what the starting eleven is going to be, no one does. There’s even talk that Steven isn’t starting. No one’s place is secure.” Stiles shut his mouth as he folded his arms. “I may be joining you on the bench.”

“Doubtful,” Stiles said, shuffling his uninjured foot against the carpet. “You’re good.”

“And so are you,” Derek pointed out. “Don’t go to dinner angry for no reason.”

“I’m angry for a reason,” Stiles said petulantly. “Jackson’s a twat.”

“That isn’t a reason,” Derek said as he pulled on his slacks. Stiles sighed, wishing that Derek would have walked around a bit longer in just his briefs. He liked the view. 

Dinner made Stiles want to throttle Jackson. He sat across from Stiles, and it forced Stiles not only to interact with him, but to attempt to refrain from lunging across the table to stab Jackson with his fork. The food, at least, wasn't disappointing. Stiles was tired of assigned seating at meals because Derek wasn't even within earshot of him. 

When they arrived, place cards had been set down at every place setting. Stiles loathed place cards. His full name glared up at him, which didn't calm his nerves in the slightest. With Jackson smirking across from him as someone took Stiles' crutches after he sat, Stiles attempted to keep his mouth shut. Next to him, Frank Lampard asked how he was doing. Stiles bit back a snide remark, and was able to say that be believed that he would be able to play the next day. 

It was Stiles' turn to smirk as Jackson's face fell. He really had meant to hurt Stiles enough so he wouldn't be able to play. All in all, the dinner went off without much to talk about afterward. Derek told Stiles, as they changed clothes when they got back to their room, that he had a good conversation with Jordan Henderson about their odds of playing against Poland. 

"Saw that you were surrounded by Chelsea players," Derek teased as he rid himself of his slacks. Stiles grumbled as he sat on his bed, his eyes not leaving Derek as he undressed. 

"Whoever decides where everyone sits? Needs to stop fucking with me."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Derek mused as he pulled on his sweatpants, leaving himself shirtless for what Stiles assumed was his own benefit. 

"Jackson is a master at being a douchecanoe," Stiles told Derek as he watched him walk into the bathroom. As Derek brushed his teeth, Stiles changed his clothes. He had been waiting for Derek to go into the bathroom because he knew it would be awkward with his ankle, and he didn't want to make a fool out of himself in front of Derek. 

Of course, just as Derek came back into the room, Stiles stumbled as he tried to step into a fresh pair of briefs. Derek rushed over, his hands out in an attempt to save Stiles' dignity. It didn't work, though. Even though Derek caught him, Stiles' cheeks reddened immediately. He shoved at Derek, his frustration at the situation getting the better of him. Derek's face hardened, but he didn't back away as Stiles finished pulling up his briefs. 

"You need to stop caring so much about what others think about you all the time," Derek said with a fondness Stiles was pretty sure he didn't deserve. 

"Easy for you to say," Stiles muttered. "You're basically a walking advert. Could take Becks’ place in those underwear ads he does."

"So could you," Derek said with an honesty Stiles hadn't expected. He had a footballer’s body, but Derek was built harder, thicker because of his added weight training. Stiles was lithe, his muscles lean. He was covered in moles, whereas Derek was smooth and blemish free. If Stiles were one of the seven deadly sins, he'd be envy. 

"Don't placate me," Stiles said as he grabbed his sleep shirt, an old Liverpool t-shirt of his dad's, faded and threadbare. It was the only one he brought with him. Now, he wished he picked a different one. Derek eyed it but said nothing. 

"I'm not. You step on eggshells around everyone without even realize you are doing it."

"Yeah?" Stiles said, his brow furrowing. "And what am I supposed to do? Hit on every bloke that I see? Footballer or not?"

"Of course not!" Derek exclaimed. 

"Then what do you mean?" Stiles asked, his voice cracking, distressed. He didn't like that they were talking about this, not right now, not when Derek was barely wearing any clothes and Stiles didn’t know what he actually wanted from Derek. 

"I mean, you’re young, Stiles. Too young to be this closed off." Stiles shirked away from Derek's touch as Derek moved his hand to place it on Stiles' shoulder. Derek's hand dropped as he sighed. "You need to be you."

"I am me. You sound like a fucking inspirational poster right now, you know that?" Stiles said, sitting down on his bed. 

"Don't act like a child."

"You said I was one, so I guess I am just living up to your expectations," Stiles huffed. Derek rolled his eyes, then sat next to Stiles on the bed. 

"Stiles, we didn't talk about anything before this all started," Derek said, signaling between the two of them. "And I think we need to."

"Okay," Stiles said, looking down at his hands instead of at Derek. 

"I'm gay, Stiles." Derek sat there, waiting for Stiles to react. 

"So am I," Stiles said, still avoiding Derek's gaze. 

"And you're scared? Of people finding out?" Derek prodded. Stiles nodded his head as he let out a shaky breath. The thing about being gay and a footballer was only two professional footballers had ever come out to say they are gay publically. The first was in 1990, Justin Fashanu was from London, and played for a lot of different teams. Unfortunately, he committed suicide eight years later. The second, a Swede by the name of Anton Hysén, came out only a few years ago, and had the media asking ‘Can gays play football, too?’. It frightened Stiles to say the least. He wanted to be remembered for playing good football, not for who he wanted in his bed. 

"Who knows?" Derek asked him. 

"No one," Stiles whispered. "I mean, my dad, Scott does."

"Scott? Is he-"

"No," Stiles said with a laugh. "He’s straight." Stiles scratched his head as he made a face. "I mean, no one knows on the team." Derek frowned as he kept quiet for a while, as if he was thinking. "Why, do the Mancs know?" Stiles asked. Derek raised an eyebrow, but nodded his head. 

"My captain knows, some of the others. No one really talks about it, you know? It's just there for them to know." Stiles sat there with his jaw dropped. 

"How? Hasn't anyone like-"

"No, definitely not. No one has said a word." Stiles shrunk in on himself, wishing he could do that, could be that open with who he was with his team mates. "Maybe, if you wanted to-"

"No," Stiles said, cutting Derek off. "If fans were to know-"

"Your team won't out you, Stiles," Derek said, wide-eyed. "You need to trust them, give them a little credit. Like, Dagger, for instance. I would have thought you'd tell him at least." 

"Because of the Red Card Homophobia thing?" Stiles asked. He supposed he could have told Daniel Agger a while ago and the Dane probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash at him. He'd probably clap Stiles on the back and offer to give him a tattoo in celebration. The thought made Stiles grin, but he still felt too exposed already, with telling Derek. "I guess I could, but I just... it's personal." 

"Stevie doesn't know?" Derek asked. Stiles shook his head. 

"Definitely not." 

"He wouldn't - Stiles he's your captain." 

"Yeah, alright, I get it. I've been keeping it from everyone when I didn't need to. I just, I'm not fucking ready, alright? End of discussion." 

"Alright," Derek said, resting his hand on the back of Stiles' neck. "I'm glad we talked about it, though." 

"Yeah," Stiles said, his eyes falling on Derek's lips. "I'm glad I told you." 

"That way we both know that more than blow jobs are in our future," Derek joked. Stiles pushed at him playfully, then wrapped his arms around Derek's middle, his face buried against Derek's neck. 

"Not tonight," Stiles mumbled against Derek's skin. 

"No, not tonight," Derek agreed as his lips brushed against Stiles' temple. He attempted to get up, but Stiles wouldn't let him. 

"Where're you going" Stiles said, his grip tightening. 

"To my bed," Derek said. "I don't want to accidentally kick your ankle if we sleep together."

"You won't," Stiles said. "Stay." 

"You've convinced me," Derek said with a smile as he leaned in for another kiss; Stiles smiled against Derek's lips. The tightness in his chest that he was so used to feeling was gone, now that he said his secret out, to Derek, at least. Now, though, it was replaced with thoughts of telling his team mates and how they would react. As they got into bed, under the covers, Stiles wanted to push those thoughts out of his mind. He and Derek lay close to each other, with Stiles' back to Derek's chest, his foot comfortably out of the way. 

Stiles barely slept, but as the alarm went off, he at least felt rested. Stiles used the crutches on the way to the bus, then as he walked into the training ground and straight into Deaton's office. As he sat on the physio's table, Stiles drummed his fingers on his thighs. He needed to play. Deaton moved his ankle, then hemmed and hawed to himself before telling Stiles what he thought. 

"I think you can train with me this morning," Deaton said with his arms crossed. "We're going to do a light training session, mostly physical therapy on your ankle." Stiles' mood sank, but he refused to let that show outwardly. "They have a second session this afternoon, let's see if we can get you to that one." 

Stiles tried his damnedest to do well with Deaton all morning. By the end of it, he was walking on the treadmill, but not running. He walked three miles before Deaton had him get off of it so he could go shower with the rest of the team, without his crutches. When he made his way into the locker room, Steven was the first to catch up with him. He immediately brought Stiles in for a hug, and for a moment Stiles was worried that Derek had told him. 

"Good to see you walking around," Steven said as he patted Stiles' back. Stiles relaxed as he caught Derek's eye. He hadn't told. "Was worried about you, lad." 

"Deaton says I can train with you lot this afternoon," Stiles told him. "Hopefully I've still got a shot." It was the last day of training before the match, but Stiles was hoping to at least be on the bench for the match. 

"I'm sure you do," Steven reassured him before heading off to the showers himself. Stiles stripped and got into a shower next to Derek. 

"You okay to train?" Derek asked him as he lathered up his soap. Stiles nodded, grinning at him. Derek returned the grin, then stepped beneath the spray to rinse off. 

"You sure you want to risk it?" Jackson said from where he was standing dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. "We all know how prone to injuring yourself you are. Wouldn't want a simple tackle to keep you out of League play." 

“Don’t be a twat, Jackson,” Derek said before Stiles got the chance to say anything. Part of him was grateful, while the other wanted to stand up for himself. Jackson looked from Stiles to Derek, then back again. 

“Can’t win your own fights, Stilinski?” Jackson sneered. “Need a Manc to stick up for your sorry ass?” 

“Fuck off,” Stiles said, stepping out of the spray of the shower just as Stevie rounded the corner, his own towel wrapped round his waist. 

“What’s going on here, lads?” Steven asked, his brow raised. Stiles pointed at Jackson, but said nothing before he turned back towards the shower. 

“I was showing my concern for Stiles’ injury is all,” Jackson said smoothly. Steven held back a sigh by ushering Jackson away from Stiles. 

“Mighty kind of you, Jackson, but maybe the shower stall isn’t the best time, yeah?” Steven said as he put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder, steering him back towards his locker. “I am sure Stiles appreciates your support, though,” Steven said over his shoulder, winking at Stiles as they turned the corner. Stiles snorted as he shook his head. 

“I hate him,” Stiles said to Derek, who was finished with his shower. He had his towel wrapped around him, but he wasn’t moving towards the lockers just yet. 

“I am pretty sure you said you hated me, too.”

“Well, yeah, I definitely hate you,” Stiles said with a smirk, “but that is different.”

“Please elaborate,” Derek said as Stiles shut off the water. Stiles could feel Derek’s gaze on him as he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his own waist. 

“Well, I hate you because you’re a Manc,” Stiles pointed out. “It isn’t personal or anything.”

“Makes sense,” Derek said easily, a hint of a smile sticking at the corner of his mouth as they walked towards their changing stations. 

“Jackson is a Grade A asshat, and my dislike of him is strictly personal, even though I hate Chelsea too.”

“Ahhh,” Derek said, amused. “Now I understand you.”

“It isn’t that hard of a thing to grasp, really,” Stiles said with a shrug. He liked bantering with Derek, even if it was mostly one-sided. 

That night, after another training session, where Stiles got to join the rest of the team, Stiles was exhausted. His ankle hurt a little, but he wasn’t about to complain about it, not when the team was announced after dinner again. He was on the bench, which is the best he could expect. Derek was starting, which wasn’t a surprise to him. Stiles showered, again, after the dinner, just to feel the hot water beat against his skin. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about everything, about how Derek was essentially out to his team, about how alienated he felt with his own, and about how he thought Steven would take the news. He knew that he wanted to tell him, he just didn’t know how to go about it. He wanted to be accepted, just like Derek was. Anton, the Swede, was accepted for who he was by his team and countrymen. It was the media that talked about how he maybe shouldn’t play professionally. It was all a load of shit, as far as Stiles was concerned. It wasn’t his sexuality that gave him his skill, it didn’t deter from his play, from his accomplishments. His sexuality didn’t define him, didn’t keep him from scoring goals. It had nothing to do with how he played on the pitch. Stiles was a good footballer, and no media pundit would make him believe otherwise. 

The next day before they set out for the match, Stiles found himself in front of Steven’s door. It wasn’t that he felt like he had to tell his captain right before a match, or that he finally got the nerve to say it. It was just that it felt right. He knocked and within seconds Steven was at the door with his phone up to his ear. Confusion played across his face, but he beckoned Stiles in anyway. 

“Hey, Xabi, I’ve got to let you go. I’ve got Stiles here at the door, looks downright sick about something - yeah, I’ll talk to you after the match.” Stiles hadn’t realized he looked bad, but he supposed it was the nerves of it all. He hadn’t slept again, despite how warm Derek had been. He wondered, for a second, what it would be like to go back to sleeping alone once they were back at Liverpool, but it wasn’t the time to think of such things, not when Stevie was looking at him with such concern. “What’s got you looking so down, lad?” Steven asked him, offering Stiles a seat at the table. Steven was sharing a room like everyone else, but Frank Lampard wasn’t in. 

Stiles licked his lips, wondering if maybe it was bad luck to say it before a match. He didn’t want to jinx it, not if the stakes were this high. If England won, then they’d qualify for the World Cup. Stiles let out a shaky breath as his feet bounced against the carpet. 

“Well, Stevie, I just feel like... like I need to tell you something.” 

“I’m listening,” Steven said as he sat on the bed close by, his full attention on Stiles. Stiles started to look at him, but then decided against it. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. 

“I’m gay,” Stiles said, lifting his head as he said it, looking Steven in the eyes. “I’m gay, and I just, I wanted my captain to know.” Stiles didn’t know what he was expecting, but to have his captain look at him like he was proud of him wasn’t one of them. Tears welled up in Stiles’ eyes as Steven came over to him, then hugged him. “I just wanted you to know,” Stiles repeated. 

“Oh, lad, you-” Steven couldn’t even form the words that he wanted to say, which made Stiles more emotional than he already was. “I’m so glad you told me.”

“You are?” Stiles asked. 

“I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t about to push you. I hope I didn’t seem like I’d not accept you-”

“No, it wasn’t that, I just, I didn’t even think I could tell anyone, and then-”

“Derek,” Steven said knowingly. 

“You knew?” Stiles asked, wide-eyed. Steven gave him a small smile, then nodded as he handed Stiles a tissue. 

“I did - I do know. You’re not alone Stiles, you should know that. Never. You’re like a kid brother to me, you know? You can talk to me about anything.” Stiles let out a breath, finally feeling like he could be more of himself around his captain. “Your secret's safe with me. You don’t need to tell anyone you don’t want to.” 

“I appreciate that,” Stiles said honestly. “I don’t know - I don’t know what I should do.” 

“You don’t need to do anything, lad,” Steven told him. “You keep playing footie, and keep showing everyone your skills, and how hard you work for them. Then, one day, if you want, you can tell the world and they won’t be able to say a thing because you’ve already proven your worth.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there is a brief mention of minor asphyxiation during a sex scene.

The match was hard to watch from the bench, what with Jackson smirking towards it every chance he got. Stiles thought Jackson should be concentrating more on the ball’s movement than at how mad Stiles was about being on the sideline. Instead of paying all of his attention to Jackson, Stiles decided to watch Derek when his eyes weren’t glued to the ball. 

England held most of the possession, which kept Stiles riveted. There were a lot of shots on goal, but nothing came of them until it was a few minutes before half-time. Wayne Rooney scored from a cross, giving them the step ahead that they wanted before the break. The locker room was buzzing, elated that they held the lead at the half. 

Stiles was ready to sit out the rest of the match, but Roy approached him, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder as if their talk could be construed as confidential when the entire squad could hear them. 

“Stiles, I’m putting you in after the half. Go up and warm up.” Stiles’ gaze fell to Jackson’s as he went. Stiles didn’t know who he was going in for, but he had an idea. He didn’t let himself think of it, it wasn’t his decision to make, but he had a skip in his step as he went out onto the pitch to stretch. He wasn’t alone, though. He and four others warmed up together, so no one knew who was going in after the half. Stiles got his blood pumping, then went back down into the tunnel so he could change his shirt into that of his kit. His last name with the number 24 on the back on a pristine white kit with the crest of the Three Lions on it looked back at him in the mirror. He caught Derek looking at him in his reflection, and grinned at him. What started out as a nerve-wracking day just turned out for the better. 

As it turned out, Stiles replaced Jackson on the field. Stiles couldn’t keep his glee to himself as he bounced in place before the whistle blew. He set off like a bullet as the play resumed and got three shots on goal within the ten minute mark. Just like in the first half, England held most of the possession, running circles around Poland. Stiles’ ankle wasn’t at 100%, but he ran as hard as he could at every opportunity he saw to get the ball into the back of the net.

With two minutes back on the clock, Stiles saw his opening as Steven passed him the ball. At the last second, Stiles’ way was blocked, so he passed the ball back to Steven, who then scored. Stiles ran to Stevie, hugging him as they celebrated the goal that ensured them a spot in the World Cup. They were officially going to Brazil in the summer, and Stiles couldn’t stop screaming. It hadn’t mattered that he hadn’t scored because he got to assist Steven. 

Back down in the locker rooms, Stiles was about to get into the shower when Roy approached him with Steven coming up behind him. Stiles thought he was in trouble for a moment, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. 

“Stiles, make your shower quick, you and Stevie are handling the press for the match,” Roy told him. Stiles looked to Steven, who was grinning. 

“But I just came on at the half,” Stiles said. It should be Wayne and Steven, the two scorers, who went out to talk to the press. Not him. 

“You realize that you had seven shots on goal, and an assist, don’t you?” Roy pointed out. Stiles nodded, because of course he knew how many shots on goal he had made. To him, they were seven missed opportunities. “Now hurry up and get up there.” 

Stiles got into the shower scrubbing down fast. He dressed, putting on his track jacket, then joined Steven as they ascended the stairs that led to the press area. This wasn’t Stiles’ first time talking with them, or with Steven by his side, but it was only his second cap as an England player. He couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t deserve the attention, but as they got to the first camera, all eyes were on him. 

“Stiles, what does it feel like to play alongside greats such as Gerrard and Lampard?” A woman asked him. Stiles looked to Stevie, who was waiting just as patiently as the reporter was for his answer.

“I’ve grown up around the pitch, around Stevie and the likes of Carra and everyone, so really it’s just been about the adjustment of playing with people I’m usually against,” Stiles said with a smile. 

“Like Rooney and Hale?” She teased. Stiles nodded his head, trying to keep his smile contained at the mention of Derek. 

“It isn’t easy,” Stiles joked. 

“Steven, how does it feel to have England heading back to the World Cup, this time as captain?”

“Well, I’m just glad we qualified early, so we can concentrate on getting the team in shape for the Cup. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us if we want to beat the likes of Spain and Germany. Those are going to be our toughest opponents, I think. We’ve got to have a strong squad, and depth that we just didn’t have in South Africa.” Stiles tried to keep his awe at the way Steven handled the press to himself, but he knew he was getting glassy eyed as he listened to him talk to the reporter. 

And just like that, they moved on to the next group, and then the next. They talked with multiple groups of reporters, for almost thirty minutes, before they got to head to the bus where the team was waiting for them. Stiles sat down next to Derek, then sighed. 

“Exhausting, aren’t they?” Derek asked, referring to the reporters. 

“Oh my god, yes,” Stiles said as he closed his eyes. “I need to sleep for a day.” 

“Too bad we’re heading back north,” Derek said offhandedly. Stiles opened his eyes, searching Derek’s expression. “We’re leaving tonight, you know.”

“I didn’t realize,” Stiles whispered, the implication crashing down around him. Derek would be going back to Manchester, and he to Liverpool. Part of him thought the International Break had gone on for weeks, at least it felt that way, but then the other part of him felt like it had just started. At least, the part with him and Derek had just started. 

When they arrived back at the hotel, it was explained that they’d have three hours to pack before the buses headed back out. Once back in their room, Stiles was quiet. All of the post-match happiness drained from his body as the door shut behind them. 

“I’m heading out on the bus to Manchester,” Derek said as he started packing his things. It made sense, that Derek would go back with the other United players and not with Stiles and the other Liverpool players. 

“Alright,” Stiles mumbled. He completely forgot about them going back. Part of him wished they were staying one more night, but being home again sounded really good. He thought about going straight to his dad’s. 

“We could talk about it,” Derek said after awhile. Stiles hadn’t known he went silent until Derek’s voice broke him from his thoughts. 

“About what?” Stiles asked. The reality of it all crashed around Stiles. They didn’t live in the same city, they played for rival teams. He couldn’t even go around the corner to go get fish and chips without someone taking his picture. “This isn’t going to go anywhere.” Derek said nothing as his eyebrows told an entire story as they moved, furrowed at Stiles’ words. It hurt to even say it, but Stiles knew it was true. 

“It could,” Derek managed to say as he zipped up his luggage. 

“How?” Stiles said as he made a half-assed attempt at folding his things. He shoved them into his bag without care. “Sneak around?” 

“No,” Derek snapped. “I just, we could just-”

“Just what?” Stiles asked. “Just fuck around during breaks?” 

“Yeah,” Derek said with a shrug. “There’s no need to complicate it.” Stiles pursed his lips together as he thought about it. “We could do that.” 

“The chance of us rooming together again is basically zero,” Stiles said, refusing to get his hopes up. 

“We could request-”

“Like that won’t draw attention!” Stiles said, flailing his arms about. “That would raise red flags faster than someone actually catching us together would.”

“So, what? It was fun? That’s it?” 

“No,” Stiles said, worrying at his bottom lip. “I mean, yes. I don’t know, can’t we just see?” 

“Okay,” Derek said after a moment. Stiles felt himself being drawn over to Derek, as he reached out for him awkwardly, unsure if he was still welcome in Derek’s arms. He was. The kiss was light, fragile, and scared Stiles more than he was willing to admit. He deepened the kiss in hopes that it would suppress how he felt about leaving the safety of their hotel room. His hands found their way to Derek’s ass, grabbing hold as his tongue delved into Derek’s mouth. Derek did the same, pressing himself against Stiles, his fingers spreading Stiles’ asscheeks apart. Stiles felt himself lean against Derek as he spread his own legs, wishing that they weren’t clothed as they continued kissing. 

“We have time,” Stiles said against Derek’s lips. “We can just-”

“For a while, yeah,” Derek said as his lips moved down Stiles’ neck, latching on at the base of Stiles’ neck, leaving a mark. “God, I just want to lick you all over,” Derek practically keened as he sucked and lapped at Stiles’ shoulder where he’d shoved Stiles’ collar out of the way. Stiles shoved at Derek’s track pants, pushing them down his thighs hastily so he could grip Derek’s bare ass in the palms of his hands, his fingers digging into flesh. “Fuck,” Derek said as his teeth raked over Stiles’ skin. 

“Bed,” Stiles demanded, stepping away from Derek in order to make his way towards a horizontal surface. He stripped himself of his shirt, then started to do the same with his pants as Derek followed suit, stepping out of his pants as he walked. Derek was already half hard, and Stiles wanted his mouth on Derek while he could. He didn’t want this to be it for them. 

Stiles bent his head upward in order to capture Derek’s lips with his as Derek straddled Stiles on the bed. Stiles’ hands slid up and down Derek’s bare thighs as they kissed with closed eyes, both of them wanting this time together to last longer than they had left. Once more, Derek’s mouth roamed over Stiles’ body, this time stilling over a nipple, teasing as Stiles began palming at Derek’s ass once more, his hips bucking slightly as he tried to seek friction. Derek moaned against Stiles’ skin as he grabbed hold of Stiles’ hands, pinning them above his head. Stiles squirmed beneath him, groaning in frustration. 

“No time for teasing,” Stiles panted. “Let me touch you.” 

“No,” Derek said as he rolled his hips, making Stiles whimper. “I want to hear what you sound like when you beg.”

“I’m not fucking begging,” Stiles spat as he tried to free himself from Derek’s grip. 

“Hmm,” Derek said as he leaned down, kissing Stiles on the lips delicately, chastely. Stiles bit Derek’s bottom lip as he pulled away, showing Derek how he wasn’t something to be handled with such care. He fucked upward, his erection pressing against Derek’s ass. He wanted to have sex, he wanted Derek’s mouth on him, he wanted to blow Derek. He just _wanted_. Derek released his hold on Stiles’ wrists, his hands sliding slowly down Stiles’ biceps until they landed on his chest, his thumbs teasing at Stiles’ nipples once more. Stiles was ready to move, until Derek leaned over, his body slipping down Stiles’ body so that their erections no longer aligned, his face burying itself in the pit of Stiles’ arm. He inhaled, his nose rubbing against Stiles’ arm. 

Stiles laughed out loud, his legs sprawling about as he felt Derek’s tongue lick a long line up his underarm. 

“Oh god, that fucking tickles,” Stiles said as he tried to catch his breath. “I can’t-” Derek covered Stiles’ mouth his his hand as he licked again. In retribution, Stiles licked Derek’s palm. Derek’s hand moved to Stiles’ neck, which Stiles never realized could be a thing for him but he let out a litany of curses under his breath that implied everything Derek needed to know about the effect the simple gesture had on Stiles. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, his breath hot against Stiles’ skin, making him shiver as Derek’s hand applied a gentle pressure against Stiles’ neck. Stiles gulped, feeling his adam’s apple bob against the palm of Derek’s hand. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asked as he looked into Derek’s eyes. 

“Do you want me to hold you down?” Derek asked seriously. Stiles nodded without thinking, because the way Derek’s hand felt against his neck was making him so hard he could barely stand it. Derek’s fingers moved, his thumb grazing across Stiles’ lips before they kissed again. Stiles’ hands roamed Derek’s body again, once more finding themselves at his ass, his fingers slipping between his cheeks. Derek grunted as he pushed back against Stiles’ fingers, giving Stiles the confidence to brush his index finger against his hole. “Jesus, Stiles,” Derek gasped as he pressed a finger inwards. It was dry, and wouldn’t go anywhere, but the pressure had Derek pressing Stiles harder into the bed. 

“Lube?” Stiles asked. Derek was off of him within the blink of an eye, going through his already packed bags. Stiles sat up on the bed as he waited, his fingers wrapping around his own cock lazily as he watched Derek pilfer through his things. “Do you have any?” Stiles asked as Derek grumbled to himself. 

“I don’t - I don’t think so,” Derek said, clearly frustrated. “Do you?”

“No,” Stiles said, his shoulders slumping. “We can just - I don’t want to stop-”

“We don’t need to,” Derek assured him as he made his way back to Stiles, pushing Stiles back against the bed. “Just follow my lead.” Stiles nodded, trusting Derek. They kissed, shifting their bodies until Derek was the one on his back and Stiles was the one straddling him, their erections rubbing against each other. Stiles could stay here, like this, and get off easily, but Derek had other plans. Derek grabbed Stiles by his ass, scooting him up Derek’s chest so that, laying down, Derek could take Stiles into his mouth. Stiles grabbed hold of Derek’s hair, unsure of where else to hold onto him as his knees dug into Derek’s arm pits, his toes curling at the feeling of his cock in Derek’s mouth. 

“Fuck,” Stiles said as he watched his cock disappear only to reappear seconds later. “How the- Jesus.” Stiles was incoherent, but realized that Derek’s erection lay untouched. He twisted his body so that he could grip him in his fist, stroking slowly. Derek moved along with Stiles’ fist, fucking into Stiles’ hand as he licked up Stiles’ length, then wrapped his hand around Stiles’ shaft. 

“Turn around,” Derek said as he licked his red, swollen lips. Stiles nodded his head, his legs shaking as he did what Derek suggested. He hovered over Derek’s face, his own looking down at Derek’s erection as it lay on Derek’s stomach, smearing precome across the trail of hair that led down to his cock. Stiles took it into his hand, then licked at the head experimentally, making Derek moan. In turn, Derek gripped Stiles’ ass, forcing his hips downwards so that Derek could take Stiles back into his mouth. Stiles watched, then set his attention back on Derek’s dick, which was thick and heavy in Stiles’ hand. 

Stiles lapped at it, then covered the head with his mouth, sucking slightly before pulling away. He leaned on one elbow so that he could get closer, burying his face in the hair at the base of Derek’s cock before sliding his open mouth along Derek’s shaft, teasing him. Derek’s moving hips let Stiles know that he was impatient, but Stiles wanted to take his time. Stiles pressed his palms against Derek’s lower stomach as they formed a triangle around his erection. Finally, Stiles took Derek into his mouth until it hit the back of his throat. He pulled back, gasping for air only to do it again. He could taste Derek, and he wanted more. Stiles couldn’t do much, not when Derek was doing the exact thing to him, making his head spin as his balls tightened. He wanted to last longer, but knew he wouldn’t be able to if Derek kept up with what he was doing. Stiles stroked Derek with his hand as he moaned, unable to keep going as he came down Derek’s throat. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Stiles stuttered as he rolled onto his side. “I didn’t know-”

“You’re fine,” Derek said as he wiped his mouth. “I was going to do that anyway, I wanted to taste you-” Stiles moved, enveloping Derek in a hug, his lips finding Derke’s easily. His mouth tasted of come, and Stiles knew it was his, but the taste was weird. He kissed Derek, crawling on top of him again, straddling him with Derek’s erection pressed up between them. “We didn’t think this through,” Derek said, his voice rough as his fingers raked down Stiles’ back. 

“What?’ Stiles asked, his lips grazing over Derek’s collarbone as he moved against him. 

“Stuff is packed, can’t shower.”

“Says who?” Stiles said, using his teeth to nip at Derek’s skin at the base of his neck as he wrapped his fingers around Derek’s erection once more. He wanted to make Derek come, hard. Derek’s body shook as Stiles mouthed at Derek’s ear. “There’s still time.” 

Derek came between them, spilling onto Stiles’ hand. He wanted to lick his hand, wanted to taste him, but he wasn’t sure what Derek would think of him if he did. Derek’s fingers in his hair had Stiles keening, his eyes closing. He wanted to sleep with Derek in his arms. He didn’t want to go back to Liverpool alone. He was done with being alone. 

Stiles sat up, pushing away from Derek so he could wash up. He had to go back, and Derek had to as well. The clock was ticking, and now they smelled of sweat and come. Stiles turned on the shower, his mood soured by the fact that the International Break was over. Derek joined him in the shower, wrapping his arms around Stiles, resting his chin against Stiles’ shoulder as they let the spray wash over them. 

“Don’t let the fact that we are leaving ruin the fun we just had,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ shoulder blade, his mouth sucking on his skin, leaving a mark. Stiles was probably covered in them, now. Good thing they didn’t have a match or training to get back to. Stiles had time to recover, to let them fade before training with Liverpool. 

“I can’t help it,” Stiles admitted, his fingers intertwining with Derek’s. “I’m not used to this.”

“You think I am?” Derek asked. Stiles turned his head enough to catch Derek’s eye. His hair wet, eyelashes stuck together, Derek looked just as sad as Stiles felt. “I’m not used to this.” 

“Maybe we can find a way?” Stiles asked, hopeful for the first time. Derek gave him a small smile, then kissed him. 

They were both getting dressed when there was a knock at the door. Derek was the one to answer it as Stiles quickly made the bed, covering up the rumpled sheets. Steven was at the door with a knowing glance as he stepped inside. Stiles’ cheeks reddened in embarrassment, they hadn’t had time to cover the smell of sex that hung heavy in the air. 

“Was coming to check on you,” Steven said, looking between the two of them. “Tell you that if you headed down sooner, then all the lads would be keen on getting on the road.” He looked between them again, then sighed. “But if you wanted to wait-”

“No,” Stiles said, taking a step forward. “I can get my things and head down. I don’t want to hold everyone up.” Steven gave them a small smile, then was gone, leaving them alone once more.

The sound of the door shutting was deafening as Derek stared at Stiles. Stiles looked to the ground, to the bed, to his pile of things by his own bed. It all seemed so final. 

"I should head down," Stiles said with a gulp, avoiding Derek's gaze. 

"They can wait just a few more minutes," Derek said as he reached out for Stiles, who shrugged him off as he shouldered his backpack, tucking his pillow under his arm. "You just said we should try."

"Yeah, we should," Stiles said, finally giving in and looking at Derek. "But if I stay in here any longer, I'm going to do something stupid."

"Stupid like what," Derek said, his fingers carding through Stiles' hair affectionately. Stiles leaned into it, his eyes closing momentarily, trying to remember the feel of Derek's hands on him. 

"Stupid like..." Stiles trailed off, biting down on his bottom lip, stopping himself from saying how much he didn't want to leave. "Nothing. Doesn't matter. I've got to go, they’re waiting on me." 

Derek took a step back from him, allowing him to go past. Part of him wanted to kiss Derek goodbye, but the other didn't think it wise. That seemed so final. 

"You've got my number," Derek reminded him. "Use it." 

"Clingy asshole," Stiles said with a smirk, which got him a halfhearted laugh from Derek in return. He opened the door, then turned back to look at Derek one more time. "I'll call you." 

The bus ride back to Liverpool was quiet, with most of the players sleeping away their exhaustion from the week. Stiles was wired. He couldn't stop thinking about everything that had happened to him on the trip. He didn't know how to begin to tell his dad about the whole thing. Stiles watched three episodes of _Lost_ on the way back, just to have something to pay attention to that wasn't his own life. He kept checking his phone, hoping that Derek would text him, but it remained quiet the entire bus ride. 

Instead of heading to his own flat, Stiles went straight to his dad's. His father hugged him, then ushered him into the living room where they both sat down to watch the replay of the match from earlier. It was weird, watching himself move around on the screen, and he would probably never get used to it. He was silent through the whole thing, not knowing what to say when his dad asked him how it went. 

"Did Derek treat you badly?" He asked. "Is that why you didn't call me?" 

"What?" Stiles replied. "No. That's not... no. He was fine, dad." 

"You sure?" His dad asked, not believing him. "You're being rather quiet, you know, for you."

"Well I did play a match this morning, while sort of injured."

"I can't believe they let you play after Jackson did that to you, and that they let him start."

"Well he didn't play the whole match, so I guess that was embarrassing enough for him," Stiles said as he picked at the couch. "I'm probably number one on his hit list of people right now."

"Don't say that," he said, scowling at Stiles. "He didn't play well, you deserved to come in at the half like you did." 

"I didn't deserve to be picked for the presser," Stiles mumbled, his brow furrowed. 

"You had the most shots on goal, didn't they tell you that? The pundits are having a field day about you."

"I don't see why," Stiles said, rolling his neck. "I'm just - I should have done better." 

"Son, this isn't the EPL. This is International Football. It is harder because you are playing with the best of the best, of every country. You're too hard on yourself sometimes." 

Stiles sighed, looking at his dad. He needed to tell him something about what happened over the break, but he wasn't sure what. He needed to let something out or he was going to explode. 

"I told Stevie," Stiles said, looking down at his hands. 

"You what?" His dad asked, shocked. "You told him that you're-"

"Yeah, Dad. I told him." 

"How'd… what'd he do?" 

"He hugged me," Stiles said, his voice catching in his throat. "He told me that I was like his kid brother." 

"He's a good man," his dad said. "There's a reason he's captain." Stiles couldn't help but smile at that. Every Liverpool fan loved Stevie, and he's already in the history books about the club. Stiles was lucky to be standing beside him, let alone playing with him. Stiles felt better about telling his dad at least part of what happened on his trip. 

Before Stiles went to bed, alone, he thought about texting Derek. It felt weird lying in bed by himself, but he didn’t want to tell Derek that. Instead, he decided to simply say _good night_. He shut his eyes after, telling himself he didn’t need to check it. Within minutes he got a response, lighting up his phone enough that he could tell he got a text back. Stiles grinned as he grabbed his phone from his nightstand, then let it falter when he saw it was from Scott. 

On instinct, he had texted Scott instead of Derek. The text read _Good night?!?!_ in response, because Stiles never said that to Scott, ever. Stiles groaned, realizing Scott was probably confused as hell. As if on cue, Scott’s picture popped up on Stiles’ phone as he called him. Stiles readied himself as he slid his thumb to answer. 

“Dude, did you sleep with someone?” Scott asked. 

“What? No!” Stiles said, because that was true, technically he and Derek hadn’t fucked. 

“Who was it? Was it someone on the England squad. Hold on let me guess-”

“Scott, I swear to fucking god, if you say a single name I will-”

“Was it Rooney?” Scott laughed. “Please tell me it wasn’t-”

“Fuck you, it wasn’t Rooney,” Stiles hissed. 

“But it was someone,” Scott said, his voice becoming serious. Stiles groaned, despising his best friend for tricking him. 

“God, you know, you think you’d at least let me tell you on my own fucking time.”

“Dude, just tell me who it was.”

“How do you even know these things? I just fucking said good night and you, like, decoded it in two seconds.” 

“Because you never tell me good night, duh. Ever. You just stop texting because you either pass out or leave your phone in the other room.”

“You know me too well. This is creepy, I’m hanging up.” 

“Wait! No! You gotta tell me-”

Stiles hung up the phone. He wasn’t ready to tell Scott who it was, mostly because they weren’t anything, they hadn’t discussed anything because they were casual. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain it to Scott, and then it would be ruined. What if he told Scott, and then Derek decided he didn’t want to try to do something, whatever that something was. Stiles rolled over, deciding not to text Derek after all. 

Training was unbearable, because Scott wouldn’t let up. It was bringing attention to them, and Stiles couldn’t help but get frustrated at him. In the locker room, Stiles snapped at Scott. 

“Listen, if you don’t drop this, I’m going to get really fucking angry.” 

“Aren’t you excited?” Scott asked, doing that puppy dog pout thing he did whenever he knew he was digging himself into a hole. “Like, about the whole thing?”

“No,” Stiles said as low as possible. “I’m not excited, this is not good, Scott.”

“How is it not good?” Scott asked as they walked out to their cars together. Stiles didn’t know how to tell Scott that it wasn’t like he could just walk around with Derek, go out to dinner with him, or anything that Scott got to do with Allison. It wouldn’t be able to happen. 

“It’s not good because I can’t fucking, I can’t - I can’t be seen with them.” 

“Oh,” Scott said, sounding sad. “I didn’t think about that.” Stiles tried to keep himself from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t Scott’s fault that he didn’t understand how difficult it was. “Well, what if you, like, met somewhere out of town?” Stiles hadn’t even thought of that, but then again he hadn’t talked to Derek since he walked out of the hotel room. 

“That could work,” Stiles said with a shrug. He jumped when his phone rang in his hand. He chanced a glance at the caller ID, and Derek’s name showed up. His heart leapt into his throat, and he let out a noise. 

“Is that him?” Scott asked, trying to see who it was. Stiles scowled at him, pushing him away as he answered the phone. 

“Hey,” Stiles said, unable to keep a smile at bay. Scott made cooing noises as they walked up to their cars. He got a punch in the arm for it. 

“Hey, just got out of training, thought I’d see what you were up to,” Derek said, 

“I just got out too, weird,” Stiles said, then wanted to punch himself for being an idiot. Derek laughed anyway, humoring Stiles. “Sorry I didn’t, like, call, or-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek told him. 

“Can you hold on two seconds?” Stiles asked, then covered his phone so he could glare at Scott who was making kissy faces at him. “Get out of my face.”

“Some best friend,” Scott said with a laugh. 

“Don’t make kissy faces at me, then,” Stiles joked. “See you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott said, waving Stiles off as he got into his own car. 

“Okay, sorry, Scott was being an evil best friend,” Stiles said into the receiver as he got into his car. 

“Kissy faces?” Derek asked. Stiles groaned as he covered his face with his hand. 

“He doesn’t know it’s you, I didn’t tell-”

“I wouldn’t care if he knew it was me,” Derek said easily. Stiles couldn’t help but smile, but it mostly hid the pain he felt because Scott would be the only person that could know. Stevie could know that Stiles was gay, but he wasn’t about to run to him about his personal life. “Unless you don’t want him to know you’re with me.”

“It’s not that,” Stiles said with a sigh. “I didn’t want our first conversation to be about serious shit,” he admitted. “I thought we’d talk about, like, this week’s fixtures or something.”

“This week, I’m hoping for a Newcastle win.”

“Hey!” Stiles shouted, laughter following it. “You fucker.” That was who Liverpool were about to go up against. “Dick move.”

“Well, you asked,” Derek teased. “Change of subject, then. I was thinking about what you were worried about, about trying things.”

“I’m listening,” Stiles said, putting Derek on speaker via Bluetooth, through his car. Hearing Derek’s voice so loud was calming. 

“What if we Skyped?” Derek asked. “That way we could see each other.” 

“Skype sex, you say?” Stiles joked. Derek made a noise, which went straight to Stiles’ dick. He was so fucked. 

“Well, eventually, sure. But I was actually just talking about a normal conversation.”

“Boring,” Stiles said. “Just plain boring, Hale.” 

“Don’t get me started, or you’ll regret it,” Derek warned.

“What are you going to do to me?” Stiles asked as he waited at a stoplight. 

“Well, since you asked,” Derek said, his voice growing serious. “First, I’d like to take my time on you, open you up slowly with my fingers, then with my tongue.” Stiles gulped, looking at the car next to his. A woman and two children sat there, unaware that Derek fucking Hale was describing what he wanted to do to Stiles. “I’d make you come, just like that.”

“Bold assumption,” Stiles snorted even though he was so hard he wanted to pull over and deal with it. He held off though, with his hands gripping tight to the steering wheel. 

“Cheeky,” Derek hummed. “I’ll remember you didn’t believe I could do it.”

“And I will make sure I don’t come on your fingers, ever.”

“Or my tongue, don’t forget that.” Stiles groaned at Derek’s words, which only made him chuckle. “This may be better than Skype, actually.”

“No, Skype would be loads better because I could see you,” Stiles said, completely dropping his playful facade. He wished they were back in London. “I want to see you.” Derek was silent for so long that Stiles was afraid he said the wrong thing. Before he really began to panic, though, Derek sighed. 

“We have to make do with what we have,” Derek said. Even though Stiles was still hard, the urgency of it faded. “I’ve got a dinner to go to tonight, so I can’t Skype.” 

“I’ve got a thing tomorrow,” Stiles said. “Then I go to Scott’s on nights before matches, it’s sort of a tradition.” 

“Then you’ve got your match, and mine isn’t until the next day.” 

“So, what? Does that mean that we can’t Skype until Monday?” Stiles asked, distressed. “This is bullshit.” 

“Well, I mean,” Derek didn’t even finish his sentence. “What’s your thing tomorrow?”

“It’s just a thing, okay,” Stiles said a little too fast. He huffed, then decided to tell him. “My mom died eleven years ago on that day.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Derek said. “I didn’t realize-”

“There’s no way you could have known,” Stiles said, frustrated with himself. This conversation wasn’t going at all like he had hoped it would. “I’m sorry, I fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t - Stiles, there was nothing to fuck up. We’re talking.”

“Yeah, but I mean, you were just talking and saying all that hot shit and now I’m talking about my mom. It’s weird.”

“It’s life?” Derek said, which made Stiles just wish he were there in the car with him instead of somewhere in Manchester. “Don’t feel like you need to be someone you’re not with me. If you want to go from me talking about doing shit to you, to, you know, something completely different, then do it.”

“I don’t really want to go from you talking about that stuff to talking about my mom,” Stiles laughed. “That kind of ruined my boner.” 

“Mine too,” Derek admitted. Stiles didn’t think he should be smiling as much as he was, but he couldn’t help it. 

“I’ll find time to Skype you,” Stiles promised. 

“I still want Newcastle to win this weekend.”

“Fuck you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out [leni's mix](http://haleinski.co.vu/post/68102168615/ri-val-ry-noun-ri-v-l-re-listen) she made for this fic!

Stiles wasn’t in the starting eleven, and it felt like a slap to the face. He tried to not let it affect him, but he couldn’t help but feel like he did something wrong. Unable to ask about it, he let it eat at him through all of training on Friday. He was on the bench, but that made him feel worse. Scott got to start, which he rarely got to, but when it came to being happy for him, Stiles found it hard. He should have been happy for Scott, but all he felt was disappointment in himself for not making it. 

Liverpool drew, 2-2, to Newcastle United. Stiles’ mood was sour afterward, having spent the entire match yelling angrily from the sidelines. The only thing that saved his sanity was the fact that United drew as well. He dreaded talking to Derek if United gained three points while Liverpool got one, or worse. Before he knew Derek, United’s standing on the table was something that Stiles looked at with disdain. He always looked for Liverpool first, then United second, but in a way that he always did the math: how many points off was Liverpool from United? 

What was the goal difference between the two and how many games would Liverpool have to win before they caught up to them, if United lost? That was all in the past, though, because for the first time in years Liverpool was the one higher up on the table. Now, Stiles still looked for United second, but it was to see just how far ahead of United they were. 

Well, that was until Derek happened to him. He still didn't support them and didn't want them to gain points, but at the same time he wanted Derek to do well. It was a contradiction, but Stiles didn't know how else to think about how he felt. He hated the crest Derek wore, but that didn't mean he didn't want Derek to play well. 

But one thing was for sure: Stiles was glad that United drew when Liverpool did. It saved him from either hearing Derek taunt him, or him taunting Derek instead. It was a circle he was sure they were going to go through, if they continued whatever they were. 

It was late Sunday evening, and Stiles was watching Match of the Day when his phone lit up. Derek's name flashed across the screen. Stiles didn't want to talk about either of their matches, and answered the phone on edge, his mood still sour from his bench warming. At least Derek had gotten the chance to play, even if he was subbed off at the 75th minute. Stiles knew, because he had recorded the match to watch, alone. 

Because he didn't want anyone to know he actually cared. 

"What's up?" Stiles asked, putting the TV on mute. 

"I'm not calling to talk about football," Derek prompted, which made Stiles' tension defuse. It amazed him that Derek knew what to say, when Stiles barely knew him or vice versa. 

"Thank fuck," Stiles said with a sigh. "Fucking shit weekend." 

"No football," Derek laughed, making Stiles smile because he had been about to go on a rant about it even though he didn't even want to talk about it. "I was calling about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Stiles asked. "What about tomorrow?"

"Are you off from training?" Derek inquired. 

"No, we're training because we played Saturday, why?"

"I was thinking we should meet up." Stiles sunk down into his couch, his smile widening at the prospect. 

"How? We can't really be seen together-"

"Why not?" Derek asked. "Friends have dinner together all the time, grab a drink, people have friends you know."

"Is that what we are?" Stiles asked, his voice quiet. "Friends?"

"No, of course not, I mean... We're different than friends." 

"Good, because I don't want to be friends with you, you're a Manc," Stiles laughed, which made Derek grumble. Whatever, Stiles thought he was hilarious. "You aren't worried about what the press would say about a Manc and a Scouser out and about together?"

"Are you?" Derek asked. Stiles' chest tightened, because he was. That was what he worried about, what kept him up at night. He didn't want the paparazzi asking questions, he didn't want them to guess at why he was with Derek. "If you don't want to be seen with me, Stiles-"

"I just - I just don't want to be forced into coming out."

"I'm not out, either," Derek pointed out. "We wouldn't be holding hands or kissing in public Stiles. I'm asking you to dinner."

"In Manchester or in Liverpool?" Stiles asked. 

“Which do you prefer?" Derek asked. "I don't mind coming to Liverpool."

Stiles' heart was jack rabbiting in his chest as he thought about it. He wanted to see Derek again, that was all he had been thinking about, but out in his own town? Where people knew him, followed him around, asked for autographs and pictures daily? Or did he want to go to Manchester where they would be surrounded by Mancs. 

"Here," Stiles said as he raked his fingers through his own hair. "Dinner, but nowhere fancy."

"No wining and dining, got it," Derek said. "I feel like I am forcing you to do this, and that wasn't what I wanted from this."

"You aren't. I want to see you." 

The next day, after training, Stiles rushed home. He showered, again, and changed his clothes. He told Derek he'd meet him at half past six, and Brendan had kept Stiles after training, asking him about his ankle. Apparently that had been Brendan's reasoning behind keeping Stiles on the bench; he had been worried about Stiles' injury. Stiles assured him that he was fine, and that he hoped to play in the coming match against West Brom. Brendan didn't give him a yes or no but patted his back as he sent Stiles off. 

They were meeting at Nando's, which wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Derek even called ahead, asking for a table and was there when Stiles arrived. Stiles was hoping that they'd be tucked away in the back, where they could talk and be themselves, but the table was easily seen from all sides. Stiles felt like he was on display for everyone and as he made his way to the table, heads turned. 

He felt sick. 

Derek didn't even stand as Stiles approached the table, and Stiles had to remind himself that this wasn't a date, publicly. They weren't going to act like it was, weren't going to draw attention. They just wanted to spend time together. Derek had a beer, which Stiles lifted an eyebrow at. 

"This going to be a drinking kind of night?" Stiles asked. They were discouraged from drinking usually, but the match wasn't until the weekend so Stiles figured it wouldn't hurt. When the waiter came by, he ordered a Jack and Coke. 

"Going hard already?" Derek asked with a smirk as he took a drink. Stiles tried not to blush. 

"Don't," Stiles warned as he looked at the menu. His back was stiff and he felt exposed. He had to get used to it, he supposed. He had no problem with being in the public eye while he was on the pitch, but a restaurant was something else completely. 

"Don't look like I forced you here at gunpoint," Derek said low as he looked down at his own menu. 

"What if someone says something about us being seen together?" Stiles asked. 

"You can't live your life scared about people you don't even know saying things about you," Derek said as he looked up at Stiles. 

"Stiles, Derek," a familiar voice said, bringing Stiles out of the vicious cycle of uncertainty and fret in his mind and back to the present. It was Jamie Carragher, a former Liverpool player, and his wife. Stiles stood up, giving Jamie a hug, since he hadn’t seen him since he retired in May. Derek, too, stood, but shook Jamie's hand instead of hugging him. "What are you two doing here?" 

"We were having dinner,” Stiles said without more explanation. Jamie Carragher had been one of Liverpool’s best defenders, as well as Vice-Captain. Like Steven Gerrard, Jamie had only played for Liverpool for his entire career. He bled Liverpool red, and Stiles was having dinner with the enemy. He looked between the two of them, which made Stiles’ nervousness skyrocket. Stiles wasn’t too sure how well this meeting was going to. 

“You’re playing La Real Wednesday, right?” Jamie asked. Jamie was currently a pundit, talking about players and matches on TV before the matches themselves. On top of that, he knew his football. 

"I am," Derek said, which Stiles had been unaware of. "It's at home, so at least we don't have to travel for it." La Real stood for Real Sociedad, not to be confused with Real Madrid. They were a Spanish team, and Manchester United was playing them in the Champions League. Champions League football is what every team strives to be able to play in. It is a tournament that takes place during the regular playing season, with all the top clubs from countries in Europe. 

Liverpool won Champions League five times, the last time being in 2005, but hadn't played in the Champions League in the past four years, due to poor League standings. Stiles bit his lip, because he could feel the tension rising between Jamie and Derek. 

"Should be an interesting match," Jamie supplied, close lipped. 

"I'm not too worried about it. Our team has enough depth that we can handle back to back matches," Derek said casually, but Stiles could tell that there was a hint underneath it that meant that Liverpool didn't have the same depth. Both Stiles and Jamie's eyes narrowed. 

"How does it feel to be level with the rest of the League?" Jamie asked, his voice heated. "Suppose it's been difficult, what with a new manager and all, trying to get back to the top four."

"I should ask you the same, how has it felt, not playing European Football? I wouldn't know."

"Fucking hell, Derek," Stiles said, coming between Jamie and Derek, putting hand on both of their chests. Everyone around them was watching, listening to their posturing. Stiles was enraged because it hurt him that he hadn't ever played Champions League ball, and how he wanted to. He remembered staying up late and watching the Champions League final in 2005, of watching it with his mom. It hurt that Liverpool were no longer at that level, but they had a chance this year. They were in second, and Derek just stuck his finger in an open wound and twisted it maliciously. "Step back." 

Jamie did as Stiles asked, but Derek didn't move. He had his hands in his pockets, his body completely relaxed like it didn't phase him at all. 

"United had the same Manager for over twenty years, we're expected to slip a little in the standings, but the season is only halfway over," Derek said, his eyes solely on Jamie. "How about we talk about this once the season is over and Liverpool, once again, finds itself without European Football. See how long the likes of Suarez will stay, then. You already lost Pepe Reina-"

"Derek, shut the fuck up," Stiles hissed. "Just stop." 

"Jamie, enough," his wife said, tugging on his arm. Stiles didn't like being outside of this conversation, and he didn't like how torn he felt because he was upset about Derek saying those things about his team, but he was also upset that Jamie felt the need to start it. They both picked the fight and went at each other. "Let's go." 

Jamie turned his attention to Stiles, his eyes darting to Stiles' hand on Derek's wrist. 

"I'll see you, Stiles," Jamie said, then nodded his head at Derek before he left. 

By the time he and Derek sat back down, Stiles was so livid he refused to say anything for five minutes after the waiter came and got their orders. 

"I'm sorry," Derek said eventually. Stiles didn't even look up at him. "He goaded me-"

"Jamie doesn't know why we're here, together, hanging out, Derek." Stiles' eyes snapped up to Derek's, his voice low and biting. "But you know, you say this isn't a date, but it is. And you just fucked it up."

"You think him telling me that my team's current standing is alright, but as soon as I mention the fact that you aren't in European-"

"If you mention Champions League to me right now I will stab you with my fork," Stiles said, grabbing the utensil. 

"You wouldn't," Derek said plainly. 

"Try me," Stiles said, the fork at the ready. 

"I didn't mean to get into it with him, okay?" Derek said. "I don't know what you want me to do about it now." Stiles dropped the fork, then crossed his arms. "He's a bit of a dick."

"You're the fucking dick," Stiles rebutted. "Your team is mid-table so you shove Champions League down our throats like that is going to prove something? You got into Champions League with Ferguson, not Argent. Let's see you talking next season when you're in the same fucking boat, alright?" Stiles said rapidly, his voice getting louder and louder as he got more and more worked up about it. "Your team was a well-oiled machine under him, and now you're going to crash and burn." 

"Stiles-"

"I want to watch United blow up because they don't make it next season," Stiles admitted aloud. Derek's jaw was clenched as they both sat there in silence. Their food came, and they ate. Stiles barely thought about the food as he ate it. He was fed up with this entire thing. When the waiter handed them both their checks, separately, Stiles said nothing. If anything, he was glad that they didn't have to do the bickering over who would pay thing. He wasn't in the mood. 

Derek followed Stiles to his car, his hand finding Stiles' wrist as he jingled his keys in his hand, refusing to look Derek in the eye. He was wound so tight he could barely stand it. 

"I don't like this," Derek said, his thumb against the inside of Stiles' wrist. 

"Well, this is what fucking happens when you put a Scouser and a Manc in a relationship together," Stiles said, then regretted it. 

"You think we're in a relationship?" Derek asked. Stiles cleared his throat, shaking his head as he turned to open his car door, his eyes looking around to see if there were any paparazzi around. He didn't see any. 

"No, it's a figure of speech, Derek, Jesus." 

"Can we go somewhere? Like your place?"

"Yeah, fine," Stiles said without thinking about it. "I'll text you the address, leave in a few minutes," he said as he got into his car, leaving Derek standing there. 

Once he pulled out of the parking lot, he sent his address. Maybe, since it was dark, and they would arrive separately, no one would notice; maybe. He texted Derek to park in the garage, and that he would park on the street out front. That way, no one would know someone was visiting unless they saw Derek pull up. 

By the time Derek arrived, Stiles had been pacing for minutes. He didn't know what he was doing, why he even allowed Derek to come over when he was so angry at him. It was stupid and would never work. Their teams meant too much to them. So when Derek walked through the door, Stiles rounded on him. 

"You should go home," Stiles told him. "This isn't a good idea." 

"Stiles," Derek said as he closed the door, behind him. He had closed the garage door, so his car was hidden. "You can't hold my team against me with every fucking turn."

"You couldn't just drop the whole thing? You had to pick at it-"

"Yeah, I did," Derek said as he took a step towards Stiles. They stood face to face, inches apart. 

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Derek said as he looked at Stiles’ lips. Stiles was so keyed up, his hands in fists at his sides, bursting with an energy he didn’t know he possessed as he leaned in, kissing Derek despite everything that he was feeling. Derek’s hands on him were like fire against his skin as the kiss deepened. Stiles’ fists clenched around Derek’s shirt, tugging at it furiously as he backed Derek against a wall. 

“I hate you,” Stiles said vehemently against Derek’s mouth as Derek’s hand cupped his ass. He groaned against Derek’s lips as he bit down, his teeth raking across Derek’s lower lip. Derek’s index finger pressed against Stiles’ ass, over the fabric of his pants, making Stiles’ push back against it. The thought of them fucking right now had Stiles so turned on he could barely think. 

“You don’t,” Derek said simply as he grabbed hold of Stiles’ neck firmly, moving it to the side so he could lick up the side of it. Stiles whimpered, his knees shaking as Derek hummed against his skin. “You always say that, but you don’t mean it.” 

To show Derek how much he meant it, Stiles pressed his palms against Derek’s chest, then pushed himself away from him, his brow furrowed. Derek let him go, but he had an eyebrow lifted as if he was amused. Stiles looked down at Derek’s pants, where he was obviously hard. 

Stiles waited all week to see Derek again, and now they were fighting. 

“No more football talk,” Stiles said as he took another step back. 

“Okay,” Derek said, his back still against the wall. 

“No mentions of it when we are alone,” Stiles propositioned. 

“I’ll try,” Derek said as he own hand ghosted over his erection, then slid against his stomach. Stiles felt his stomach drop as he watched Derek undo his belt buckle slowly and didn’t even know he was dropping to his knees before he was there, kneeling in front of Derek as he took his cock out of his pants, heavy and hard. Stiles’ mouth watered as he watched as Derek wrapped his own hand around his erection, pumping slowly. “We don’t have to do anything right now-”

“Don’t put your cock in front of me and say that,” Stiles said. “Just let me blow you.” 

Derek removed his hand, allowing Stiles’ to replace it. Stiles’ tongue lapped at the head of Derek’s cock, his eyes closing as he tasted him. He knew they needed to talk, to discuss what they were mad about, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to do it when he was this turned on. His own cock felt neglected between his legs as he worked Derek. He palmed at himself, humming in contentment as Derek held onto his hair, guiding him on his cock. A rush flowed through him as he heard Derek murmur _Just like that_. His balls tightened at the notion that Derek approved. 

Stiles let Derek cup his face with his hands, his fingers against Stiles’ neck, as he thrust his hips forward, his cock hitting the back of Stiles’ throat. Stiles had his hands down his pants, shoving them out of the way so that he could get to his own erection as Derek used his mouth. 

When Derek pulled back enough that Stiles could breathe, he gasped for air. He hadn’t realized he had tears streaming down his face until Derek wiped them away, only to press the head of his cock against Stiles’ willing lips once more. Stiles’ mouth opened for him, his own hand jacking himself off. 

They were barely in his apartment, and Stiles was about to come all over his carpet. He wrapped his index finger and thumb around the base of his cock to stop it from happening. Derek’s hands were rubbing soothing circles around Stiles’ shoulders as he forced his cock down Stiles’ throat. When he pulled back, Stiles put a hand to his upper thigh as he got his breathing back under control. He looked up at Derek through watery eyes, his mouth open so he could breath easier. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles rasped, his throat raw. “But not on the carpet.” He didn’t want carpet burn on his ass, or his knees. Derek’s fingers carded through Stiles’ hair once more, and all he could think about was how reassuring Derek was, all the while being so aggressive with him. It made Stiles’ climbing climax approach at an even faster rate. He wanted to be manhandled, and he wanted to be told he was doing a good job. Stiles didn’t even need to tell Derek that he wanted these things, because he was already doing them. 

“I can do that,” Derek said as he helped Stiles to his feet. “Lead the way.” 

Stiles made his way to his bedroom. He adjusted himself as he walked, pulling up his pants enough that he could move around easily enough. Now that he had the chance to think, he wondered if fucking was a good idea when they had been fighting. If he thought about dinner, he would get incensed all over again. Stiles shot Derek a glance as he pointed at the bed. 

"If you wait here, I'll go get everything," Stiles said, his voice hoarse still from getting face fucked by Derek. If that was how blowing Derek went, Stiles couldn't help but wonder how he fucked. 

Stiles picked up his pace to the bathroom, where he kept his condoms and lube. The bottle was almost empty, which Stiles supposed could make Derek think he was more experienced than he let on or he'd realize just how much time Stiles spent masturbating. There wasn't time for Stiles to think about that, though, as he made his way back to his bedroom where Derek was standing, looking at the pictures hanging on Stiles' wall. 

"You looked like a handful," Derek said with a smirk as he turned his attention back to Stiles. He had been looking at a picture of Stiles and his parents. He had been seven in the picture, and wearing a kit that was way too big for him, McManaman on the back of it. Stiles had loved that kit, his mother bought it for him at a match and it had been the smallest size. It was the match that Stiles asked his mom if he liked boys, if he could still play football. 

In a way, that was when he came out. He always knew, and so did she. 

Stiles cleared his throat as he tossed the supplies onto the bed, then joined Derek, wrapping his arms around Derek's waist as he rest his chin on Derek's shoulder. 

"I still am," he mused. Derek laughed, then turned around, grabbing hold of Stiles' ass, then lifted him up. Stiles took the cue and wrapped his legs around Derek's waist, his hands cupping Derek's face. "You are addicting, you know that?" Stiles asked as he kissed Derek, who walked slowly towards Stiles' bed. Derek's hands gripped Stiles' ass, his erection pressing against Stiles' own. They both groaned at the friction. 

Stiles landed on the bed with a bounce as Derek started stripping him down, pulling at his pants and shirt. All that was left was Stiles' briefs, which were wet with precome from jacking himself off. Derek rid himself of his own shirt and pants, his erection hung heavy between his legs. Stiles let out a moan of appreciation at it, because of the difference between them. 

His erection angled upwards when he stood, whereas Derek's hung down, and was thicker even if they looked about the same length. Stiles couldn't concentrate on anything as he watched Derek stroke himself as he looked down at Stiles. He spread his legs, waiting. He didn't know how Derek wanted to go about this. 

Because Stiles had never had sex with someone else before Derek. 

Sure, he spent a lot of time with himself. He had toys, he knew what he liked, but that was nothing compared to being with another person. Derek was so real, standing in front of him, and Stiles had to hold himself back from coming at the thought of Derek touching him. 

Derek stepped forward, putting a knee up onto the bed as he reached down for Stiles, hooking his hand around Stiles' neck to bring him in for a kiss. Stiles' mouth opened readily for him, wishing for more contact than just Derek's mouth and hand. His brow furrowed as the kiss continued, chaste and slow. When it ended, Stiles was panting as his head hit the mattress. Derek grabbed the lube, saying nothing about the state of the bottle. Stiles' chest tightened as he felt the need to tell Derek, because he needed to know. 

"I'm a virgin," Stiles sputtered, his cheeks reddening. He was ashamed because he was famous and nineteen. He expected Derek to tease him or at least make some sort of comment. Instead, Derek gave him a look like he understood. 

"I know," Derek whispered as he poured a dollop of lube onto his fingers. rubbing them together, getting them warmed up. "That's why I've been letting you call the shots." Stiles gulped, licking his lips as Derek's hand slid from his knee to his thigh, spreading Stiles' legs wider. Stiles' hand was around his cock, but wasn't moving it. He decided to help Derek by reaching down and cupping his balls, giving Derek easier access. "I don't plan on fucking you into the mattress just yet." 

"Okay," Stiles said, his voice wavering as Derek pressed a finger against his entrance. It was slicked up, and slid in with just a little resistance. Stiles' time spent alone hadn't gone to waste, but Derek's intrusion felt nothing like his own fingers or toys. It was warm, and as Derek moved, Stiles' breath hitched in his throat. 

"You take care of yourself," Derek stated as he pulled his finger away in order to add more lube, this time slicking up two fingers. Stiles' chest was heaving at the thought of two fingers fucking him, and so distracted that all he could do was nod his head. He had been fucking himself, and he would be lying if he didn't say that he spent more time in the past week with his dildo then he had before the International Break. 

"Yeah, I do," Stiles managed to say. "I can show you sometime," he prompted even though it hadn't been what he meant to say. The implication that Stiles would fuck himself in front of Derek had him moaning because Derek's fingers were fucking him and he couldn't think straight. His grip on his cock, holding off his climax, was painful. 

"Come on, Stiles, you know you want to," Derek urged him. Stiles began stroking himself, his body shuddering as he came as Derek's fingers pounded into him, stretching him. His body relaxed more afterward, when all that was left was Derek spreading him wide. Stiles complained when Derek pulled out, his legs spread even more so, wishing for Derek to be back between them. 

Stiles' come was drying on his stomach, sticky and uncomfortable, but Derek surprised him by leaning over and licking up from Stiles' cock to his navel, cleaning him up. Stiles' back arched, as he let out an open-mouthed moan, his fingers carding through Derek's hair as he licked at Stiles' sensitive cock. 

"Derek… don't," Stiles begged as he pushed Derek away from him. "I can't handle that," he laughed. Derek's lips caught Stiles', kissing him as he maneuvered himself between Stiles' legs. Stiles grunted as Derek grabbed hold of him, then shifted so that Derek ended up sitting on the bed while Stiles straddled him. 

Of all the positions that Stiles thought he'd lose his virginity in, none of them were him sitting in someone's lap. This seemed so much more intimate, and the meaning behind it wasn't lost on him. Derek wasn't going to fuck him into the mattress, at least not yet. First, he was going to let Stiles control the movement, the pace. 

Stiles ran his fingers across Derek's face, pushing his hair out of the way before he kissed him. Derek's cock was pressing against Stiles' opening, and as Stiles began rolling his hips, Derek groaned against his lips. 

"Condom," Derek said as his lips grazed across Stiles' neck and collarbone. Stiles stretched, reaching for the condoms. He grabbed one, scooting back enough so that he could roll it on him. He jacked Derek off as Derek added another dollop of lube, and suddenly they were pressed together, the head of Derek's cock sliding into Stiles. Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder as Derek guided his cock into him slowly. It burned and Stiles felt like he couldn't move, but Derek's hand on Stiles' back reassured him. A kiss to Stiles' shoulder urged him to move, so he did. With their arms wrapped around each other, Stiles moved. He tossed his head back, because with each movement, he relaxed more. Derek's cock felt huge, and with each roll of his hips, it stretched him more and more. 

The movement was slight, and the pressure intense as Derek gripped Stiles' ass, helping him keep up a pace. Stiles placed open-mouthed kisses along Derek's shoulder and neck, his fingers digging into Derek's hair as he was fucked. Between his legs, his own cock came back to life. As Stiles began stroking himself, their mouths found each other once more. Stiles panted against Derek's mouth as Derek jerked his hips and groaned, coming. 

"Jesus," Derek rasped, his own fingers raking through Stiles' sweat soaked hair. "You okay?" Derek asked as he pulled out. Stiles nodded his head, resting it once more against Derek's shoulder. He felt so empty now that Derek wasn't inside him, but also more exhausted than he ever was when he used a toy. His own erection flagged as his eyelids became heavy. 

"Yeah," Stiles said, eventually. It was a belated answer, but as Derek laid Stiles down, Stiles reached out for him, catching Derek's wrist as he started to get off the bed. "Don't go."

"I'm not," Derek assured him. "I'm getting rid of the condom and getting a washcloth."

"Oh," Stiles said as he let his eyes close fully. 

When he came to, Derek wasn’t with him in bed, and Stiles was covered up by a blanket. A wave of panic washed over him as he sat up. He had asked Derek not to leave, and now he was alone. Stiles tried to reason with himself as he got out of bed, changing into a pair of sweatpants. They weren’t in a relationship, and Stiles passed out. If he were Derek, he wouldn’t want to just hang around. As Stiles walked into the bathroom, he noticed how sore he felt. He winced as he flipped on the bathroom light, seeing the marks that Derek left on his body. He had a line of hickeys along his shoulder. He touched them, the feeling went straight to his groin. Stiles’ heart was heavy in his chest as he thought about Derek, now. The sex was good, but they hadn’t had a good night over all. 

They fought, they fucked, and now Derek was gone. 

Stiles decided to brush his teeth, then shower. His ass hurt, a dull throb, and when he ghosted his fingers across it, he gasped as they slid in easily. He shut his eyes, not wanting to think about it. He didn’t want to regret it, not when he had been the one that instigated having sex. 

Stiles got out of the shower, then pulled back on the sweatpants. When he walked out of his room, he let out a noise of surprise because Derek was sitting on his couch with a cup of tea. 

“You’re here,” Stiles said, looking to the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. 

“You asked me not to leave,” Derek said before he took a sip from his cup. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh, because Derek had been sitting out in his living room the entire time he had been trapped within his own mind, scared that he had been left. “Do you want me to-”

“No, no. I just… thought that, because I woke up alone-”

“Ah, sorry about that,” Derek said, leaning back on the couch. He was wearing the clothes he wore to dinner. “I laid down for a while, but I knew if I stayed there I would wake up in the morning and be late to training.” 

“That would be bad,” Stiles said as he stepped forward, joining Derek on the couch, his legs tucked up underneath him. Derek’s eyes glanced at the hickeys, then looked Stiles in the eye. 

“Very bad.” The air hung heavy between them, and Stiles realized that Derek would probably be leaving soon, to go back to Manchester. 

“About earlier-”

“No footie talk,” Derek reminded him. Stiles bit his lip, his fingers playing at the collar of Derek’s shirt. 

“But I think we need to, a little.” 

“True,” Derek said with a sigh. 

“I think going out in Liverpool wasn’t wise,” Stiles said slowly, unsure of his wording. “And I think that the same thing could have happened in Manchester.” 

“But if we go out in a random city, then that would be weird,” Derek pointed out. “And I don’t want us to have to sneak around.” 

“I don’t want to sneak,” Stiles murmured. “I just don’t want to get into fights every time we go out because of our teams.” 

“Well,” Derek shrugged. “If Jamie hadn’t-”

“Ah, ah,” Stiles said, covering Derek’s mouth with his hand. “None of that shit.” Derek smiled against Stiles’ hand, so he dropped it. “But I hope La Real-”

“Don’t say it-”

“Wins on Wednesday,” Stiles said with a grin. Derek attacked Stiles, then, by tickling him, hard. Stiles couldn’t breathe as he was pushed against the couch, his legs flailing about as Derek teased him mercilessly. “Stop, stop, okay, I hope United draws!” 

Derek stopped tickling him, but his hands remained on Stiles’ bare torso. 

“I have to go soon,” Derek admitted. 

"Not yet," Stiles said as he wrapped his legs around Derek, keeping him in place on the couch. "We just started talking."

"You mean tickling," Derek joked as he brushed his lips against Stiles'. "I have training in the morning and afternoon tomorrow to get ready for the match."

"I've got training, too, you know," Stiles said as he put a hand to the back of Derek's neck, keeping him still. 

"You don't play until this weekend, though," Derek pointed out as he ended the kiss, pushing back from Stiles. Stiles let him go, his legs untangling. 

"Still," Stiles said, not wanting to fight again. He wanted to ask when he could see Derek again, but he didn't want to seem so clingy. Instead, he stood up with Derek, walking him towards the door that led to the garage. 

"I'll call you," Derek murmured as he leaned in for one more kiss. Stiles nodded as it ended. Derek left, leaving Stiles aching in more ways than one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please heed the added tags of 'homophobic language' and 'homophobia'.

Stiles didn't hear from Derek until after the match against Real Sociedad, which United won. It was only a text, a simple smiley face, but it was a text nonetheless. Stiles sent an emoji back, the pile of shit. He didn't know why, but it made him laugh. After that, they didn't talk until late Sunday night. Derek called when Stiles was already in bed, half asleep. 

"What do you think about you coming here tomorrow night," Derek prompted. Stiles was curled up in his bed, his brain foggy already when he said yes. 

"Manchester on a Monday," he mumbled. "Great."

"Are you asleep?" Derek asked, clearly amused. Stiles grunted in response. "I think it would be easier, since I have a gate and no one would see you get out of your car here."

"You have a gate?" Stiles asked, becoming more awake by the second. He even sat up and put his light on, rubbing at an eye. 

"Yeah, I have a house, too. It comes with the gate."

"Cheeky bastard," Stiles said as he shifted in bed. "Alright, fine. Booty call at your place, then."

"Who said it was a booty call?"

"Well you're calling me at midnight, so-"

"A booty call would be me calling you at midnight and asking you to come over now."

"You're an hour away I am not coming now," Stiles told him. 

"I didn't ask you to, although that would be good for me since I don't have training tomorrow."

"Same here," Stiles said, biting his lip as he thought. He wanted to sleep next to Derek again, like they did during the break. If he left now, he could get there at one. "But me coming now, I'd just get there and crash." 

"We should plan things better," Derek said, and Stiles heard him shifting around, like Derek, too, was in bed. 

"What time tomorrow?" Stiles asked. 

"Whenever," Derek answered honestly. "I have no plans." 

Stiles ended up going over to Derek's a little after noon. He slept in, showered thoroughly, then headed out to Manchester. When he pulled up to the gate, Derek buzzed him in. The house wasn't at all like Stiles was expecting it to be. It was big, but not overly so. Made of brick, two stories, with a three car garage. Derek was outside waiting for him in a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt, barefoot. He looked so casual, so at home and relaxed. Stiles liked seeing him like this, because this was the real Derek. 

Derek motioned for Stiles to park in one of the garage bays, so he pulled in and turned off his car. He made his way to Derek, hoping for a hug. Instead, he was greeted by a kiss on the cheek. 

"Let's go in, first," Derek urged, with a hand on Stiles' lower back. Derek shut the garage behind him. Inside, Derek's kitchen was all stainless steel and looked barely used. The layout of the house was open, with a view to the massive big screen TV in the den that could be seen easily from the kitchen. Like Stiles, Derek had Sky Sports on, along with what looked like the start of lunch scattered across the island counter top. 

"What's this?" Stiles asked as he slipped off his shoes by a pile of them by the door. 

"I'm making us lunch," Derek supplied easily. 

"You didn't need to do that," Stiles said as he sat on one of the stools so he could watch Derek chop vegetables. 

"Nothing big, mind you," Derek joked. "I am no chef, but I can do kabobs." He already had chunks of lamb cut up into cubes, and was cutting onion and tomato to add to the skewers. "If you want, you can help make the marinade, though." 

"Sure," Stiles said, moving to the sink so he could wash his hands. "What kind of marinade?" He asked, hoping it was simple. 

"Just some herbs, the list is on the counter and the rack is in the pantry, they should all be there." Stiles rolled up his shirt sleeves, then took the recipe into the pantry where he grabbed all the herbs that were listed, as well as the olive oil. 

Once he mixed the marinade, Derek was done chopping everything, so they mixed everything together in a big bowl, then put it in the fridge to set. After washing their hands, Derek dragged Stiles outside, where a football was waiting for them on the grass. Barefooted, Derek began playing with it. 

"A bit of a toss around until it's ready?" He suggested. Stiles beamed, nodding his head. It was nice, being with Derek like this, in his own home. It was easier than going out. Here, they didn't have to worry about others seeing them. They could be themselves. 

"Great match this weekend, by the way," Derek said as he headed the ball towards Stiles. Stiles turned red, because he didn't know what to say to that. He scored a brace, meaning two goals, against West Brom. Liverpool won 4-1, and Stiles was now one of the top scorers so far in the season. 

"You too, great assist," Stiles said, meaning it. He had watched Derek on Match of the Day the night before, when Manchester beat Stoke City 3-2. "It was a bit touch and go there for a bit."

"Stoke are a bunch of twats," Derek said and Stiles couldn't agree more. 

"They play dirty, always have," Stiles said as he watched Derek bounce the ball from foot to foot. He saw his chance, and took it, stealing the ball away from him, then started running with it. Derek caught up to him, grabbing him around the waist and bringing him to the ground. "Foul! I call a foul! You weren't going for the ball at all! Yellow card!" Stiles screamed as he laughed. Derek was on top of him, their limbs tangled. Stiles turned his head and found Derek's lips easily. His heart soared, wishing every day could be like this. 

"Come on, let’s grill so we can eat." 

Derek helped pull Stiles to his feet, then started the grill before they made their way back inside. Stiles got them drinks out of the fridge, then sat at the table on the patio so he could watch Derek grill. 

"So, Arsenal this weekend," Derek said, bringing up the upcoming match that was on Stiles' mind. Arsenal currently were on top of the table, with Liverpool hot on their tails in second. If Liverpool won, then they'd be top of the League for the first time in years. It was a big match, but it would be away, at Arsenal's stadium in London. Stiles was certain he'd start, what with his brace in the last match, but that didn't mean he still wasn't anxious about the match. Liverpool's past matches at the Emirates Stadium were a toss up. 

"Yeah, it's going to be a big match," Stiles surmised. "Whereas you've got Norwich." 

They both laughed, because Norwich would be a breeze. It was weird, the fact that Stiles openly admitted to knowing Derek's fixture schedule, and Derek his. 

The kabobs were delicious, and Stiles ate four of them, even though he was full after three. Afterwards, they tossed the dishes into the dishwasher, then sat on Derek's couch, which was leather and looked expensive as hell, and watched TV. It was a lazy afternoon, but Stiles was content. Eventually, they found a movie, and made themselves more comfortable. Innocent touching turned into kissing, which led to groping and half of the movie missed because neither of them were paying attention. Stiles ended up on his back, with Derek laying on top of him as they continued kissing. Stiles never got to make out for the fun of it, and he decided he liked the feeling of kissing for the sake of kissing. 

He was getting a stubble burn on his chin, could feel the burn of it, but he didn't care. Derek was rolling his hips slightly, rubbing against Stiles' growing erection but neither of them felt the need to do anything about it yet. They just kept kissing. 

Until someone came through the garage door. 

"Der, whose car is in the- Oh, shit," a girl's voice said from the kitchen as Derek popped his head up over the back of the couch. "Oops."

"What are you doing here?" Derek asked, getting up from the couch, raking his fingers through his hair. Any erection Stiles had was gone now. 

"I thought I'd drop by," she said. Stiles could hear her shuffling things around from his position on the couch. He wasn't sure if he should get up or not, not when it would be obvious what was happening moments before. "Who's the cutie you've got hiding?" Stiles sat up reluctantly, to find a girl with similar features to Derek. She had to be around Stiles' age, give or take a year. She looked from Stiles to Derek, then back again. 

"You're fucking a Scouser?" She asked. Stiles winced as he stood up, wiping at his mouth. His lips were numb, probably red and swollen as well. 

"Cora, don't-"

"Don't what?" Cora asked, crossing her arms. "You know what? It's not my business."

"You're right, it's not," Derek said. 

"A footballer, Derek?" Cora said, wide-eyed. "It'd be easier if you fucked around with someone no one else knows."

"I'm not talking to you about this."

Cora crossed her arms, looking at the two of them. 

"So, you're the one Derek's been fawning over," Cora said, looking Stiles over. "The baby of the League." 

"I'm not a baby," Stiles said, looking to Derek for reassurance. 

"That's debatable. You do realize he is almost seven years older than you, right?"

"Cora, stop," Derek said through gritted teeth. "And it's five years." 

"Oh? You're nineteen?" She asked. "You look seventeen." Stiles' cheeks flushed but he refused to snap back at her. 

"Cora, leave," Derek said with a sigh. 

"I should go," Stiles said, edging towards the door. 

"No," Derek said the same time that Cora said, “Yes.” They glared at each other as Stiles put his shoes on. "Stiles, don't leave." 

"I'll talk to you later," Stiles said, looking between them before heading out the door. He was almost in his car when Derek came running out the door after him, stopping him by holding onto the frame of the door. 

"I'll make her leave," Derek said. "Just give me five minutes." 

"I'm going home, Derek," Stiles said, looking to the door where Cora was watching them. "You talk to her, then call me." Derek moved his hand out of the way so Stiles could close the door and start his car. Stiles drove off, making it back to Liverpool in record time. 

He didn't hear from Derek, though. His phone remained silent until the night before the Arsenal match, when he was already at Scott's. He ignored the call from him. Instead, he played _Call of Duty_ with Scott and tried not to think about how upset he was that Derek hadn't called until four days later. 

Liverpool lost against Arsenal. 

Stiles didn't want to talk to Derek because part of him blamed Derek for the loss. His head wasn't in the game. He was too worried about why Derek hadn't called, about Cora's reaction to finding them making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers. Manchester, of course, won against Norwich 4-0, which pissed Stiles off to no end. United got three points, while Liverpool got zero. It was like the world was mocking him. 

With only a week left until the next International Break, all Stiles felt was dread. He didn’t want to be back in London again with Derek if they weren’t talking, it just felt wrong. 

Luckily, Liverpool won their next match against Fulham 4-0, with Stiles getting a goal and an assist, which picked up Stiles’ spirits before the break. There still wasn't word from Derek, which fucking hurt, but Stiles kept telling himself that he wasn't in a relationship with him. Then, United won against Arsenal and Stiles got a text not even three minutes after the match ended. It read 'I beat them for you.’ 

He huffed, then tossed his phone across his couch. He watched the match, because he was a masochist. Derek had been the one to score against them, and his goal celebration was him pointing at the camera. Stiles hadn't thought of what it could mean until he got the text. He side- eyed his phone, trying to decide if he wanted to call Derek back or not. He'd be in the locker room, surrounded by his teammates. He decided to hold off until later, when Derek would be alone. 

It was torture, waiting. He gave it two hours before he gave in and dialed Derek's number. It only rang once before Derek picked up. 

"You called back," Derek said, sounding surprised. 

"Yeah, well, you texted," Stiles said, knowing he sounded petulant. 

"I called last week," Derek pointed out. 

"Well, I was mad last week, and you won your match."

"So you're telling me you didn't call me back because I won?" Derek asked. Stiles couldn't help but smirk. 

"Yeah, something like that," Stiles said. 

"Well, that doesn't make sense because I just won again and now we're talking."

"Hey, I'm making this up as I go, okay?" Stiles said, breaking the tension he felt between them. "Did you really dedicate that goal to me when you pointed at the camera?" Stiles asked, unsure if he should bring it up or not, to let Derek know he was watching. 

"Yes," Derek admitted. "I knew you were probably beating yourself up over losing to them, so I just thought..." Derek trailed off. "I'm sorry about what happened with Cora. We were having a really good day, and she came in-" Derek sighed in frustration before he continued. "I want to have a day like that again, with you."

"I do, too," Stiles admitted aloud. "I had a lot of fun just being with you, and you made lunch and kissing you was..." Stiles didn't want to keep talking because then he'd tell Derek how much he cared about him. "It was a good day."

"We leave for London tomorrow," Derek prompted. "I can't wait to see you again."

"Same," Stiles said, smiling to himself. "I want to be in London again, just like last time."

"Exactly." 

"What did you and Cora talk about after I left?" Stiles asked. "I need to know why you didn't call until Friday." 

"I didn't call because I got busy, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to call you. We just talked, about everything. She didn't mean to be so brash, she's just protective. She thought you'd spill and out me, but obviously that isn't true. She didn't realize you were gay, too. She thought you just wanted a side thing, you know?"

"I don't want a side thing," Stiles mumbled. "And I wouldn't tell."

"I know you wouldn't," Derek assured him. "But why didn't you call me back?" Derek asked. "I thought you were done, with everything." 

"No," Stiles said. "Nothing like that at all. I was at Scott's, when you called. I go over there before matches and I didn't want to fight with you at his house because I thought that was what was going to happen, that we'd fight again." 

"And then you didn't call after that because I got three points."

"Yeah," Stiles said, biting his lip. It sounded so childish when said out loud. "Sorry."

"You needed space," Derek said as if it was that simple. "We can talk more in London."

"Definitely," Stiles said, even though he wasn't ready to hang up with Derek yet. "I will see you tomorrow." 

This time when Stiles got to the hotel in London, he was ready. They were staying in the same hotel as last time, and he was handed his key card by Erica again. He arrived with the other Liverpool players, and rode the elevator up with them. Steven was injured but traveled with the team anyway in hopes that he would be fit for the second friendly they were playing. Both matches during the break were friendlies, meaning they didn't count for anything, but were important to keep the team in good shape in the lead up to the World Cup. 

Stiles made his way to his room, which was empty when he arrived, meaning he got to pick which bed he wanted. He decided on the one closest to the window. While he was unpacking his things, he got a text that Derek arrived. 

'What room are you in?' Stiles asked, hoping it wasn't far. 

'612,' Derek replied with almost immediately. Stiles' heart sank, because Derek wasn't even on the same floor as him. 'Where are you?' was sent directly afterward. 

'827,' was all Stiles texted back. 

'Roommate?' Derek asked. 

'Don't know yet, not here,' Stiles said as he lay down on his bed. Ten minutes later, there was still no reply back from Derek and no roommate. A knock at the door had Stiles confused, but he got up nonetheless. Stiles beamed when he saw Derek's form in the peephole. 

When Stiles opened the door, he pulled Derek inside the room and closed the door as quickly as he could so he could put his arms around him. It felt good, having Derek's arms around him again. 

"Your roommate must be from London if they aren't here yet," Derek murmured against Stiles' skin, his lips catching on Stiles' chin as he made his way to Stiles' mouth. All the blood in Stiles' body rushed to his groin as they kissed, as he moved against Derek's body. He wished they could fuck again. 

"Hope it isn't one of the guys from Arsenal," Stiles said against Derek's lips. He didn't want the kiss to end, ever. 

"Would you rather it be Chelsea?" Derek asked with an eyebrow raised. 

"Neither," Stiles said with a grin. It was great to be in the same place as Derek again, even if they wouldn't have any privacy. 

"I should go before they come in, but I wanted to say hi."

"Some hi," Stiles said, capturing Derek's lips with his again. It was an addiction, kissing Derek. His hands roamed, cupping Derek's ass. Derek was the one to break away, his hands clasped around Stiles' wrists. 

"Best not," Derek said, kissing Stiles on the cheek. "See you at the dinner." 

"Yeah," Stiles said as Derek disappeared. 

Just before the dinner was to start, the door to Stiles' room opened to reveal Jackson Whittemore with his suitcase and key card. Stiles scowled as Jackson visibly looked disgusted. He couldn't have a worse roommate. 

"I see they've paired me with Scouse scum," Jackson said with a sneer as he put his things down. 

"How's it feel to be under Liverpool, Jackson?" Stiles asked from his bed where his eyes were trained on the TV. "Mourinho content about that?" 

"Fuck off, piece of shit."

"Ouch, burn," Stiles said as he stood up then made his way to the door. He didn't want to be in his room any longer than he had to be, so he headed down to the dinner a few minutes before they were supposed to. As he walked towards the elevator, he texted Derek. 'Jackson is a fucking douche.'

Within seconds he got his response: 'You got that fucker? I'm sorry.' Stiles smiled, knowing he at least had Derek to complain to about the Chelsea player. 'He's probably still pissed you came on for him then blew him out of the water with your performance.'

Really, Derek was just making Stiles blush. 

'I'm going down now, had to get out of the room.' 

'I'll be down in a mo',' Derek texted back almost immediately. 

Stiles wasn't at all surprised to find Derek in the lobby waiting for him. 

They were both dressed in the England crested blazer, but Derek looked better in his, like his body was built for it. Stiles felt like he was swimming in his, but as he approached, Derek's eyes moved up and down Stiles' body like it was something he appreciated, wanted. It made Stiles feel a million times better. 

"Fancy meeting you here," Derek said as Stiles walked up. 

"Don't usually come around these parts," Stiles said with an easy smile. The room where they were eating was open to them, ready for them to sit. They found their names on the place cards, and Stiles wanted to strangle whoever placed them so far apart. Derek was seated next to Jackson. Stiles picked up his place card, and moved it, replacing it with Jackson's before anyone saw. Derek was grinning when Stiles returned. 

"Sneaky," Derek said as he pulled out his seat so he could sit down. 

"I wanted this seat," Stiles said with a shrug. 

Slowly the other players came down, joining them at the massive table. No one said a word about Stiles moving his seat, and he was content to join in conversation with those around him, while his and Derek's legs pressed against one another's beneath the table. 

They stayed downstairs, mingling, for hours, not wanting to leave each other's sides. When it was time to go upstairs, Stiles dreaded it. He didn't want to be alone with Jackson all night. 

"Just text me," Derek said as they walked to the elevator. "Ignore him. Listen to the fan all night with your headphones in." 

"He's such a prick," Stiles said as he leaned against the elevator wall. They were alone in the elevator, and he hadn't realize that they could have been kissing until it stopped at Derek's floor, opening for him. Stiles couldn't help but frown as Derek walked away from him without so much as a touch. 

"Night," Derek said as the doors closed, leaving Stiles alone in the elevator. 

When he got into the room, Jackson practically growled at him. Stiles ignored his glares as he changed clothes without a word, getting into his sweats and a long sleeved shirt. He immediately put his headphones in so he could watch more _Lost_. He hadn't watched it at all since the last break. Stiles ended up texting with Derek until he went to sleep, not saying a word to Jackson the entire night because of his headphones. 

At training, Stiles stood by Derek. They paired up together when they stretched, holding onto each other as they bent and warmed their muscles. Some of the stretches and bends were rather intimate, now that Stiles thought about them. Ass to ass, they held onto their arms and leaned forward, then they sat facing each other, grabbing onto their wrists as they stretched their hamstrings out. 

Stiles decided he liked stretching the most when he had Derek as his partner. 

After they were done training, Stiles was dripping with sweat and covered with fake grass. He had tackled Derek in a 5-a-side scrimmage, accidentally on purpose, just so he could then help him up. Really, Stiles just wanted an excuse to touch Derek more. In the locker room afterward, Stiles stripped down to his jockstrap before Derek appeared beside him, naked and covered with dirt and sweat. 

"You think you've won?" Derek asked with an arched eyebrow. 

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked as he looked around. No one was paying attention to them, because people smack talked in the locker rooms all the time. 

"Just you wait, Stilinski," Derek said, his voice serious. If Stiles didn't know better, he'd be worried. As Derek walked past him, there was a loud crack as Derek slapped his ass. 

It was a common occurrence, especially in the locker room, to slap someone's bare ass. The sound echoed off the tiled walls and Stiles jumped, because Derek had made it _hurt_. He caught the look in Derek's eye afterwards, as he walked away. It was retribution for the tackle. Derek slapped Stiles' ass in public as payback. Stiles had to think of the most disgusting thing he could before he took off his jockstrap, because there was no way he was taking it off half hard. 

When he joined Derek in the shower, well, next to him, he said nothing. Acting like nothing was wrong, that he wasn't horny as hell because Derek smacked his ass, was easier than he thought it would be. They were silent as they washed up, then grabbed their towels. Stiles dressed then made his way to the bus, without Derek. When he sat down, he saw a text from Derek waiting for him. 'Save a seat for me.'

Instead, Stiles sat down next to Martin Kelly. Just because. He wanted to sit next to Derek, but he didn't want it becoming obvious. When Derek got on the bus, he didn't show a look of surprise, but sat across from Stiles and Martin without a word. Stiles counted it as a win. 

It was announced that Stiles would be starting against Chile, but Derek would be on the bench. It wasn't that big of a deal, because with friendlies, hardly anyone played the whole match. For international friendlies, the amount of times that someone could be subbed out of the match was endless, unlike during normal matches when it was just three. Most clubs got upset with the National Teams when players were kept on longer than necessary because of the strain that the added matches took on their bodies. 

In the end, Stiles only played for the first half and Derek the second. 

Not being able to find time with Derek alone meant that they had to be cunning about their time. Elevator kisses were daily occurrences, along with constant texting. They stayed late after meals, and showered next to each other. No one said a word, until the night before the match against Germany. 

Stiles was sitting on his bed, texting with Derek, when Jackson spoke up. 

"What's with you and Hale?" Jackson asked. Stiles' eyes widened then he tried to police his facial features. 

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked as he dropped his phone into his lap, hiding it. 

"I mean you're all over each other like a couple of fags," Jackson stated. "And who the fuck are you texting all the damn time?" 

"My best friend. Do you ever text, Jackson? Do you even have friends?" Stiles asked, tight-lipped. He needed to be careful what he said. 

"Yeah, but you're attached to it like you need air."

"Well, when I'm forced to room with Chelsea shit I have to keep myself occupied somehow," Stiles mumbled, thinking about how he has had no time to himself. Jackson never left the room, and banged on the door if Stiles took too long in the shower so he could jerk off. "Since all you manage to do is piss me off more."

"You're a piece of work," Jackson spat. "Staring at Hale's ass all the time. Does that get you hard? Want to fuck a Manc, queer?" 

"Fuck off, Jackson," Stiles said, turning red. 

"You think I'm blind? I see you looking at me, too. You better not fucking touch me."

"Why would I want to touch you?" Stiles said, repulsed. "You make me sick."

"I'm going to tell Hale that you watch him, warn him to stay away from you."

"You do that," Stiles said nodding his head with his eyebrows raised. "Because you're delusional. I don't want to be anywhere near you."

"You're lying to yourself," Jackson said, scoffing. "I can see it. You're a fag that just wants to be fucked."

"Not by you," Stiles hissed as he got out of bed, making his way to towards the door. He wasn't about to stay in there and listen to Jackson say those things to him. Stiles tried not to think about the fact that Jackson knew, that Stiles practically confessed to being gay by telling him he didn’t want him. Stiles felt like he was going to be sick. 

He made his way to the elevator, his hands shaking as he pushed a button, his stomach churning. When the doors opened, he was glad that he would be alone in the elevator. He stabbed at the floor he wanted as tears welled up in his eyes. Jackson practically harassed him, and that wasn’t okay. 

Stiles wiped his eyes as he stood in front of a door, attempting to regulate his breathing before he knocked. It took a few seconds before the door opened to reveal Stevie. The sight of his worried face made Stiles’ defenses crumble. 

“Stiles, lad, what’s wrong?” Steven asked as he ushered Stiles into the room he was sharing with Martin Kelly, who was sitting on his bed with his headphones on. When he saw the state that Stiles was in, he pushed the headphones down around his neck, perplexed. Stiles looked from Martin to Steven, not knowing if he should just go on and say it, or ask to be more private. 

Steven seemed to realize why Stiles was stalling, so he turned to Martin. 

“Kels, you mind going to Hendo’s room for a bit? I’ve got to sort Stiles out.” Martin nodded knowingly. Steven was in captain mode, and you did as your captain asked. Martin patted Stiles on the shoulder before he left. Once he was gone, Steven urged Stiles to have a seat on his bed. “What’s got you like this?” Steven asked, offering Stiles a tissue. He wasn’t crying, but the sentiment made Stiles feel better all the same. He gulped before answering. 

“Jackson,” Stiles started, looking at Steven for a moment before looking away from him. He couldn’t look him in the face for this. “We were sitting in our room, and he just started saying all these fucking things-”

“What kind of things? What did he say?” Steven prompted. Stiles braced himself, his fists clenching over his thighs. 

“He called me a fag, told me I looked like I wanted to be fucked, said I wanted him to do it-”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steven said, wiping his hand over his face in frustration. “What did you do?”

“Well he said he was going to tell Derek that I looked at him, you know, and I told him to go right ahead!” Steven gave Stiles a small smile, but remained quiet otherwise. “That’s when he said I was looking at him too, and said I wanted to be fucked,” Stiles said, looking down at his hands. “So I said ‘Not by you!’ and I left. So now he knows and he’s ruined everything,” Stiles said, his voice shaking. 

“He’s not ruined a thing,” Steven reassured him. “You mind if we call Roy? He should know about Jackson harassing you.” Stiles shrugged. He didn’t know what would be best. “Do you want to call Derek?”

“What?” Stiles asked, looking up at Steven finally. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted him to know-”

“No,” Stiles said, “I don’t want him in this. Jackson has no idea about him, he’s safe.”

“Stiles, you’re safe, too,” Steven said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know that, right? Jackson is being a fucking twat, but he wouldn’t go public.”

“I’m not so sure.” 

“If he does, he won’t be playing under me,” Steven said gravely. “I’ll see to that. I’m going to call Roy. And you’re moving rooms.” 

“What? To where?” 

“I’ll room with him,” Steven said, giving Stiles a smile. “You can stay in here with Kels.” Stiles felt better with Steven having his back. Steven went into the bathroom to make the call, giving Stiles privacy to get himself together. It didn’t take long before Steven reemerged. “Roy’s on his way.”

“Did you tell him?” Stiles asked. 

“No, lad,” Steven said as he sat down next to Stiles on the bed. “That’s not my place.” Stiles nodded, appreciating it but being horrified at the same time. “You could not tell him, just tell him that Jackson was harassing you.” 

“You think?” Stiles asked, hopeful. He wasn’t ready for everyone to know, not yet. 

“If that’s what you want to do, I’ll back you.” 

Roy knocked on the door a short time later, looking grim. Stiles’ heartbeat picked up because behind him was Jackson. Stiles panicked, but Steven gave him a look that said let him take the lead. Stiles trusted his captain.

“Asked to see you alone, Gaffer,” Steven said, using a slang term for manager. 

“Well, I was on my way, when I ran into Jackson here, who tells me that Stiles accosted him.”

“What?” Stiles said, standing up, outraged. “I did not-” Steven hushed Stiles by putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“I suggest we talk this through,” Steven said, looking Jackson in the eye. “And figure out who is lying and who is telling the truth.” 

“Sounds like a good idea,” Roy said, stepping further inside with Jackson following. “What has Stiles told you?”

“I think it would be best if Stiles said his part,” Steven said, crossing his arms. “But, I’m interested to know Jackson’s take on events.” Stiles didn’t know if he wanted to go first, or second. He didn’t have time to think it over before Jackson stepped forward. 

“He’s a faggot who has been eyeing me all week,” Jackson spat. Stiles winced, because he hadn’t so much as seen Jackson’s dick, let alone oggled at it. “He should be banned from playing for what he’s done.”

“And what’s he done, exactly?” Steven prompted. 

“Tried to grope me,” Jackson supplied. Stiles stood, fuming, and took a step forward. 

“I haven’t touched you,” Stiles hissed. “And don’t want to. I’ve left you alone this entire week. I’ve had my headphones on every time I’ve been in the room alone with him. Tonight he called me a fag, said I wanted to be fucked by him, and that I wanted him.” 

“Well, are you? Roy asked. Stiles’ gut clenched. 

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not,” Stiles bristled. “He harassed me, I hadn’t done a thing to him and didn’t provoke him in the slightest.” 

“You’ve provoked Hale,” Jackson said. “We should bring him in and see how he feels about you groping him.”

“Do it,” Stiles growled. “Because I have done no such thing.” Steven urged Stiles to take a step back, his eyes on Roy. 

“Gaffer, I think we need to separate these two, they shouldn’t be rooming together.” 

“I agree,” Roy said, quiet. He was eyeing Stiles, which made him feel uncomfortable, like Roy was trying to decide if he wanted Stiles on his team. If Stiles lost his spot in the England squad over this, he was going to be sick. 

“You’re rooming with Kelly, right? Move him to Jackson’s room. You can keep an eye on Stilinski.”

“Keep an eye on me?” Stiles said, wide-eyed. Steven gave Stiles a look, telling him to keep quiet. 

“You’re both out of the match against Germany,” Roy said, looking between the two of them. “I won’t have behavior like this on my team.” Stiles wanted to cry, he was so distraught. He hadn’t done anything. 

“You can’t do that,” Jackson said, clearly just as beside himself at this turn of events as Stiles was. “He’s the one who’s a faggot.” 

“You stop that language right the fuck now,” Steven said, his voice raising. “If you call him that again you won’t be playing for England ever again.” Roy remained quiet, but didn’t look happy. “Gaffer, I want to meet with you before training in the morning, alone.” 

“Sure thing, Steven,” Roy said, giving Stiles a look before he ushered Jackson to the door. “Accompany Stiles to get his things.” 

“I will,” Steven assured him. Once the door closed, Stils collapsed back onto the bed, holding his head in his hands. 

“Oh, god,” Stiles gasped. “I’m so fucking done for.” 

“You’re not,” Steven said as he started texting someone. Stiles sat there, spiraling in his own self-loathing. “I’m gonna talk with the Gaffer tomorrow.”

“Did you see how he looked at me?” Stiles said, distressed. 

“I’ll talk with him,” Steven promised. “And I’ll go get your things, I want you staying here.” Moments later, Martin Kelly came back in, along with Derek. Stiles wanted to run to him, hug him, but he didn’t think he should in front of Martin. Steven gave them both a smile. 

“Come on Kels, lets get your things. I’ll help you take them down.” 

“Sure thing, Stevie,” Martin said, giving Stiles a smile. “I can handle that dickwad, Stiles.” 

“He needs a good smackdown,” Stiles offered, but his voice had no punch behind it. He didn’t have it in him. His gaze was on Derek, who was waiting patiently. Martin and Steven left, and Stiles jumped up from the bed, letting himself be wrapped up in Derek’s arms. 

“How’d you know to come?” Stiles asked against Derek’s shoulder, his face buried against it. 

“Stevie texted me,” Derek murmured, smoothing Stiles’ back. “Told me to come sit with you as he got your stuff.” 

“God, I just want to go home,” Stiles told him. “I don’t want to be here.” 

“Want to tell me what happened?” Derek asked. Stiles shook his head as he sniffed back his emotions. 

“Not really,” Stiles said. But he did anyway. He told Derek about the things Jackson said, about the way Roy looked at him, how he and Jackson wouldn’t even be on the bench against Germany. 

They tore apart when they heard the door opening, but it was obvious they had been hugging because Derek’s shirt was wet where Stiles’ head had been resting. 

“Don’t mind me,” Steven said as he put Stiles’ things on the bed. “I’m going to talk with Roy now, fuck waiting until morning,” Steven said, looking between them. “You’ll wait with him?” Steven asked, talking to Derek. Derek nodded. “Good.”


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, before training, Stiles had a meeting with Roy, alone. He dreaded it, not sure how it would go, or what would be said. He thought the worst, though - from being kicked off the squad to not playing in the World Cup, or worse, forever banned from playing for his country. 

Derek stayed with him until one in the morning, when Steven finally returned from talking with Roy. He hadn’t said how it went, but told both him and Derek to get some rest. Stiles hadn’t slept, too afraid of the outcome from the entire ordeal. 

Roy was seated in his office at Saint George’s Training ground, waiting for Stiles to arrive. He pointed at the chair before him, wanting Stiles to sit. He did. 

“After much consideration,” Roy began, “and deliberation with Steven, I have decided to start you against Germany.” 

“What?” Stiles said, his jaw dropping. 

“Do you not think that is a good decision?”

“No, no! I want to play, I want to start,” Stiles stammered. “I want to play for England.” 

“Good. I want you to prove to me that you can do it,” Roy said. The way he said it made Stiles shrink a little. Roy was giving Stiles a test, to see if he could play football, despite the fact that he knew Stiles could. “This is our last break before March, when I decide who I am taking with me to Brazil. You need to prove your worth to me.”

“I won’t let you down,” Stiles assured him. 

“Good, now go stretch. I want to see you scoring during training today.” Stiles got up to leave but stopped at the door. He had to ask, or he’d beat himself up later about it. 

“Sir?” Stiles said, catching his attention. Roy looked up at him, clearly not wanting to continue talking with him. “I was just- about Jackson. What’s happening with him?” 

“He will be going on in the second half, after I take you off. He needs to prove his worth, too.” 

“I see,” Stiles said, gulping. “And about-”

“Steven assures me it won’t become an issue,” Roy said, not even looking up at Stiles. “Do you agree?” Stiles wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded his head anyway. 

“It won’t be,” Stiles said before he left. A stale taste was on his tongue as he entered the training ground. Steven was there, waiting for him. 

“How’d it go?” He asked as Stiles began stretching next to him. 

“I’m starting,” Stiles told him. “He wants me to prove my worth to the squad.” Steven was quiet, but his mouth was turned into a frown. “He said you told him I wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I said you hadn’t done a thing, and that it wouldn’t be a reoccuring issue,” Steven said. “That you keep to yourself, and that Jackson instigated it. You won’t be rooming with him again.” 

“Thanks, Stevie,” Stiles said as he watched Derek approaching.

“When you’re called up for the Cup, I’m going to have a talk with the Gaffer about rooming arrangements. A month is a long time, and tension will be high during it. We don’t want what happened last night to happen during lockdown.” 

“I don’t want it either,” Stiles said. It was the last thing he wanted. “If I get called up again.”

“Don’t think like that, lad. You will be, if Roy wants to do well in it.”

“Are you starting?” Stiles asked, wondering because Steven missed the match against Chile because of a thigh injury. He and Daniel Sturridge were both injured but got called up anyway. 

“Yeah,” Steven said as he looked at Stiles. “Germany is an important match, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Even though it was a friendly, the match against Germany was going to be a big one, due to Germany beating England in the 2010 World Cup and effectively kicking them out of the tournament. Although the match counted for nothing this time, it was the principle of the thing. 

That night he called Scott. He had gotten used to playing matches for England without Scott being there, but he still felt like their ritual of spending the night together before matches was important. All he could do from London was call, though. They ended up talking for two hours, and afterward Stiles realized how much he missed his best friend. He told Scott about Jackson, about how he was starting. 

England lost against Chile, so Stiles and the rest of the team were already on edge. Stiles wasn’t sure how they supposed to do well at the World Cup if they couldn't win these matches in their own stadium. The World Cup was going to be in Brazil, far from London and the farthest from home Stiles had ever been. Stiles ended the call just a few minutes after Steven came into the room. He had been down the hall, in one of the other rooms where the guys gathered to watch TV. 

"You should have come over," Steven said as he got ready for bed. Stiles shrugged from his bed, not wanting to say that he would rather be alone than be near Jackson. "It was fun, some of the lads had a poker game going." 

"I'm not big on poker," Stiles said as he flipped through the channels on their own TV. 

"Me neither," Steven said with a smile, "but it's fun watching the lads lose their money." 

"Who was winning?" Stiles asked. 

"Hale," Steven said, this time with a smirk. "He's made a pretty penny off the Chelsea boys." 

"Good," Stiles murmured, looking at his phone. No wonder he hadn't heard from Derek all evening. With the phone call from Scott, he hadn't noticed until then that Derek had been silent. Usually they texted until they fell asleep. Stiles wasn't going to think too much into it, especially if Derek was hanging out with everyone. 

"Surprised he didn't invite you," Steven prodded. Stiles raised his eyebrows at Stevie, hoping that got his point across enough. He didn't want to talk to Steven about he and Derek. "I get you," Steven said. "I was just saying."

"He probably knew I wanted to be alone, with the match tomorrow and all."

"Gotta be positive, lad. No match is won if you go into it thinking the worst," Steven told him as he got into bed. Stiles liked rooming with Steven. He was quiet, let Stiles keep the TV on low for white noise, and let Stiles shower first in the morning. Apparently Steven's wife liked keeping the TV on as they slept, and took up the bathroom in the mornings, so keeping up with his routine helped. Steven told Stiles that he got homesick, too, when Stiles mentioned to him that he wished he was home. Stiles felt closer to his captain, knowing that he goes through the same things that Stiles does. 

In the locker room, before the match, Stiles was nervous. Germany's National Team was a good team, and hard to beat. Not only did they knock England out of the 2010 World Cup, but they got to the semi-finals against Spain, who ended up winning. Then, in 2012, at the Euro Cup, Germany once again got to the semi-finals but lost to Italy. They were one of the favorites to win the 2014 World Cup, whereas England wasn't really believed to make it much further than the group round. 

Derek was going to be on the bench for the first half, at least. Stiles tried not to think about anything, just the match, as the whistle blew and the match started. Stiles needed to show Roy that he was worth his spot, and he knew that he only had the first half to prove it before he brought Jackson on in his place. 

Stiles set his own pace, trying to remain open. Germany seemed to have most of the possession, which meant that the chance of the ball getting to Stiles was slim to none, but somehow he managed to have three shots, two on goal, within the first thirty minutes of the match. He pushed himself, knowing he wouldn't be in the second half. Germany were clearly having the better match, which frustrated Stiles to no end as he found an opening in the 37th minute, getting another shot on goal, this time the closest England had come to scoring in the match. 

Only, it led to Germany getting possession of the ball. Within a minute, they scored on England. Five minutes before the whistle for halftime, England lost their confidence in the match. Per Mertesacker, an Arsenal player, was the one to score on Joe Hart, and it left the team devastated, trying to pick up the pieces before the end of the half. Stiles didn't manage to get ahold of the ball again before the whistle blew, and he knew it was over for him. 

Not only was England losing, but he wasn't going to be called up for the World Cup. He couldn't deliver a goal, and he felt as though it was his fault that England was down one. As they walked down the tunnel into the locker room, Steven put a hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance. 

"There's always the second half," Steven said, though his words sounded hollow, calculated, like he was saying it out of habit. 

Once in the locker room, the team huddled together to listen to Roy's disappointment in them. Stiles stood next to Derek with his head hung low. As Roy told them about their lack of possession, how they needed to work together if they were to show Wembley that they were ready for the Cup, and how there would be changes made to the side at the half, Derek held onto Stiles' wrist, his fingers wrapped around it, his thumb on the pulse point. Stiles bit his lip, because he didn't want to react any more to the touch so it wouldn't bring any attention to them. They were all pressed close together in order to hear Roy, sweaty and smelling disgusting. Stiles leaned into Derek, though. He needed it. 

Even though they were in the same hotel, they hadn't been able to be together and just having Derek touch him had Stiles' senses on overload. He knew that he was covered in sweat and dirt, but Derek didn't seem to care. When the huddle ended, Derek's hand dropped from Stiles' wrist. 

"Hale, you'll be going on for Stevie a little into the half, so go up and stretch. Jackson! Go up with Hale, you're going on for Stilinski." Stiles didn't even react to it, because he knew it was going to happen. He had his chance and blew it, now Jackson had his. 

Stiles stripped off his kit, then showered. It was quick, just enough to wash off the dirt and grime from playing. He put on the training kit, that everyone wore on the sidelines. He was antsy as he joined the rest of the team as they went back out into the stadium. He picked a seat next to Martin Kelly, slouching down so that he could put his feet up on the seat in front of him, where no one sat. 

The match was hard to watch as England struggled. The only saving grace for Stiles was the fact that Jackson was playing horribly. Every time he got the ball, he turned around and gave it away again. He didn't even get close to the goal with it. Jackson made one shot, close to the end of the match, but it was way off and went into the stands. 

England was losing, and the feeling around the stadium was that of utter disappointment. Stiles hated the feeling as he watched his teammates struggling. Stevie had been taken off in the 56th minute, replaced by Derek, and sat on the other side of Stiles, saying nothing. Steven was silent, but the aura he gave off let Stiles know exactly how he felt. They were going to lose. The knot in Stiles' stomach grew as the clock grew closer to 90 minutes. 

When the whistle blew, Stiles was glad it was over. He felt totally run down, like he got slapped in the face. England lost both friendlies in the International Break. They were going to the World Cup, but that didn't make him feel better about losing at home. The locker room was solemn as everyone changed and showered. Roy was there, looking somewhere between disappointed and despondent. 

Stiles made sure he got to sit next to Derek on the bus back to the hotel. Once more, they'd be leaving for Liverpool within a few hours and they hadn't done more than kiss the entire week. Stiles wanted to be near him as much as he could, even if they couldn't really talk openly. Stiles slouched in his seat, his knees pressed against the empty chair in front of him where Jackson sat alone, closer to the window. Stiles chanced a glance at Derek, who was typing on his phone. 

"We have a day off, before we're due back at training," Stiles said, his voice low as he picked at his pants, his nail scratching at the fabric for no reason. 

"We do," Derek said as he nodded his head. 

"I was thinking about going somewhere," Stiles said offhandedly, sighing. "Just for the day." 

"Any ideas?" Derek asked nonchalantly. 

"I was thinking about doing some Christmas shopping at the shops in Manchester," he said. 

"Manchester has a lot of shopping," Derek said vaguely, but was unable to hide his smile. 

"It does," Stiles murmured, looking up at Derek, but not saying another word about it. He would have his time alone with Derek, he just had to be patient. 

Once they were in their rooms, Derek texted Stiles. ‘Meet me at the gym in ten’. Stiles immediately sent back a reply that he would be there. Stiles packed as quickly as he could, much to Steven's amusement. 

"I'm gonna, yeah, I'll be back before we set off," Stiles said as he made his way to the door. 

"I'll just have a bellboy bring your things down to the bus," Steven said knowingly. "That way you can just meet us down there." Stiles grinned. 

Stiles said he would be patient, but as he made his way to the hotel's gym, he couldn't help but be excited. Derek wanted to be alone with him as much as Stiles did. Once he was in the gym, he looked around for Derek. He found him, lifting weights in England's traveling kit, the same that Stiles was wearing, only Derek had his shirt off. 

Stiles bent over, picking up the discarded shirt, then waited for Derek to finish his rep. When he did, Derek looked up at Stiles from the bench. 

"Locker room," Derek said as he stood up. The tone of his voice sent all the blood from Stiles' brain down to his groin as he followed Derek, still clutching at his shirt. The locker room was empty, which made sense since the gym had no one in it as well. It was late, and they'd be getting into Liverpool in the middle of the night. 

Derek turned towards Stiles, his hands cupping Stiles' face as he leaned forward to kiss him. Stiles' mouth opened as soon as he felt Derek's lips against his. He let out a whimpering moan as he dropped Derek's shirt so that he could paw at Derek's clothes, pulling at the elastic waistband in order to get his hands on Derek. Derek smiled against the kiss at Stiles' insistence that they go fast. 

"Slow down," Derek urged him but Stiles groaned in frustration as Derek's hand gripped Stiles' wrist. "This is risky, Stiles."

"You're the one that texted," Stiles said against the skin of Derek's neck where he left open mouthed kisses. "Don't bring me into an empty locker room if you don't want to get off."

"I wanted to talk to you alone," Derek said. Stiles backed off, his eyes searching Derek's for any sign of bad news. "Nothing’s wrong, I promise," Derek reassured him. "I only wanted to talk about tomorrow."

"Oh," Stiles said as Derek's hand hooked around his neck, bringing him closer. Stiles pressed himself against Derek's chest, his arms wrapping around his waist. "I just wanted to see you, I don't care what we do."

"Do you actually want to shop?" Derek asked. 

"No," Stiles snorted. "I just wanted to tell you I would come to Manchester." 

"I'll make sure no one comes over," Derek said, as his hand slid down Stiles' back, resting just before the curve of Stiles' ass. Stiles buried his head against Derek's neck, wishing that they could just do whatever they wanted. 

"Good," Stiles said, eventually. They stood there, their hands roaming their bodies innocently, until Stiles couldn't take it anymore and grabbed Derek's ass, his fingers digging into the meat of it. "I want so many things," Stiles murmured, his eyelids heavy as he thought about them being naked together once more. It had been so long ago now. It wasn't fair. 

"Me too," Derek whispered as he kissed Stiles on the lips chastely. "But not here." Stiles nodded against Derek's lips, then backed away, dropping his hand. "You'll get to do some of those things tomorrow."

Stiles smirked. 

"Yeah, I will." 

The bus ride back to Liverpool was quiet. Almost everyone was asleep but not Stiles. His _Lost_ addiction was too strong for sleep. When he got home, he fell into his own bed. He made sure to set his alarm, though. He wouldn't get but a few hours of sleep, but seeing Derek would be worth the lost sleep. 

Stiles tried not to think about the fact that his International career could be over, and all because of Jackson's comments. Stiles had been harassed, and he was being punished for it. He couldn't say anything about Roy's decisions because he was the manager. It hurt, knowing that he tried his damnedest in the match, but it didn't matter. He'd just have to wait and see what Roy's decision would be. 

There wouldn't be another International Break until March, when they would be playing a friendly against Denmark, who didn't make it through the qualifying round so they wouldn't be going to the World Cup in June. It would be weird, not having any Scandinavian countries represented at the Cup. Stiles had been sure that Sweden would go through, but they had lost to Portugal the same day England lost to Germany. Cristiano Ronaldo had scored a hattrick, when a single player scores three times in a single match, making it possible for Portugal to go through to the World Cup instead of Sweden It was something that Stiles hoped to be able to do one day. He had gotten a brace before, scoring twice, but never a hattrick. 

Derek met Stiles at his door with a smile on his face. Stiles parked in the garage again, out of sight of prying eyes. There was no pretense about what Stiles was doing in Manchester. This wasn't like last time, where they made lunch and lay around lazily. This was the release that they had been waiting for throughout the International Break. 

Stiles kissed Derek, their mouths eager as hands grabbed at the other. Derek was wearing a button up, and Stiles immediately began working his fingers around the buttons, trying to rid Derek of it as Derek's hands glided across Stiles' stomach, beneath his shirt. Stiles moved into the touch, wanting Derek's hands on him. They were barely in the door, standing in the kitchen. 

"You know," Stiles said between kisses, "you didn't even show me your room last time.”

"I'm a horrible host," Derek mumbled against Stiles' lips, not wanting to back away. Stiles laughed as Derek deepened the kiss, walking them towards the front, where the stairs were. "Let me give you the grand tour." 

"About time," Stiles said as they parted so they could go up the stairs. Derek's hand was in Stiles’, leading the way. Stiles held onto the banister as they went. Derek's bedroom door was a double door, that swung outward, revealing a king size bed that was up on a platform. Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek. "This looks like some sort of playboy bachelor pad," Stiles joked. 

"Well, I am a bachelor," Derek said as he dropped Stiles' hand. "Go on, jump on it." Stiles didn't have to be told twice. He vaulted himself onto the bed, moaning as he landed. It was the most comfortable bed he had ever lain in. He shut his eyes as he spread out. 

"How can you fuck on this bed? I'd just fall asleep." 

"Want to test it?" Derek asked, smirking. Stiles pushed himself onto his back, then up onto his elbows as he eyed Derek. His legs were spread, knees bent and pointed towards Derek, whose feet were still on the floor. 

"Yeah, I do," Stiles said as he looked around the room. There was another huge flat screen TV, along with a huge walk-in closet. "How many rooms do you have?" Stiles asked. 

"Three," Derek said as he began taking off his socks, tossing them into a hamper. "It was four but I opted for a bigger closet and bathroom." 

"Sounds about right," Stiles said with a grin. 

"You look good in my bed," Derek said with his hands on his zipper as he slid it down. Stiles lay   
back down on the bed, his head turned to the side so he could still see Derek. "I thought about you here, with me."

"You did?" Stiles asked as he slid his own hand up his chest, pushing up the fabric of his shirt, teasing. "What else did you think about?" 

"I thought about fucking you," Derek said as he pushed his jeans down his thighs. A hint of a smile played at Stiles' lips as he sat up in order to take his own shirt off. "Thought about you fucking me." Stiles felt his entire body flush, the blood rushing to the surface at the mention of him fucking Derek. It was what he wanted, but hadn't known how to ask for it. 

"I want to do everything," Stiles said as he scooted to the edge of the bed so his legs dangled off of it. Derek stepped up onto the platform, standing between Stiles' spread legs. Stiles tilted his head back as Derek leaned down, leaving a long, lingering kiss on Stiles' lips. With his hand on the back of Stiles' neck, Derek guided Stiles to his groin. Stiles licked up the trail of hair leading down beneath Derek's briefs, then left an open-mouthed kiss on the dip next to Derek's pelvic bone, his teeth raking across it as he cupped Derek through his briefs. Derek grunted, his fingers carding through Stiles' hair as Stiles mouthed along the outline of Derek's growing erection. 

Slowly, Stiles hooked his fingers around the elastic band of his briefs, bringing them down his thighs enough to free Derek's cock. Stiles' tongue licked up his length multiple times, his eyes closing as he wrapped his lips around the head, taking Derek fully into his mouth. Stiles moved at a languid pace, relishing the fact that they had an endless amount of time. Today was theirs, finally, and he wasn't rushing this. Appreciatively, Derek's fingers massaged Stiles' scalp as he looked down at Stiles, who grew harder in his own pants. 

"What do you want today?" Derek asked, like he would give Stiles anything he could, all he had to do was ask for it. Stiles backed away from Derek's cock, his mouth reddened and swollen. He thought for a moment, his head tilted to the side as he licked his lips, his fingers wrapped around Derek's cock, stroking him slowly. 

"I want to taste you," Stiles said, finally looking up at Derek. His pupils were blown, and his skin tingling at the thought of Derek on his knees before him, his mouth on him. Derek made a noise low in his throat as he nodded his head. Stiles let go of Derek's erection, allowing Derek to step out of his briefs. Stiles stood up, raking his fingers through his own hair before shoving his own jeans down. 

"Hold on," Derek said as he disappeared into the closet for a moment. When he returned, he had a tub of lube, the thick, white kind instead of the clear. Heavy duty. Stiles' eyes widened as he imagined Derek, alone, fucking himself on a dildo or something bigger, perhaps a buttplug. Stiles could have come in his pants if Derek hadn't snapped him out of his reverie by kissing him. 

Derek's hands roamed over Stiles' body, cupping his ass and squeezing it before ending the kiss. Stiles trailed after Derek's lips, giving him one more kiss before Derek got on the bed. Along with the lube, Derek grabbed a condom as well. Stiles wanted to comment about wondering where the rest were, because this was only round one, but he couldn't form any sort of witty reply when Derek was on his knees before him. Stiles stepped up onto the platform, then reached out for Derek, his hands spreading Derek's cheeks apart. Derek's head hung low between his shoulders as Stiles pressed his thumbs against Derek's opening, but didn't breach him. 

This was exactly what Stiles wanted. 

He leaned forward, keeping Derek spread with the palms of his hands, and licked tentatively. Derek let out a low moan as Stiles did it a second time, this time starting lower, just behind Derek's balls, then licking upward past his hole. Eventually, Stiles used his tongue to probe against Derek's opening, moving it back and forth over and over, wetting it thoroughly before he pressed a finger inward. Derek arched his back, pressing back against Stiles' finger. 

"More," Derek begged. Stiles didn't want to add more yet, because that would require lube and once he brought that into the picture, he couldn't rim Derek anymore. Instead he pulled back, replacing his finger with his tongue once more, making Derek groan in frustration and want. Stiles worked him open until his own erection was almost too painful to bear. 

His briefs were wet from the precome leaking from his cock, neglected as he readied Derek. Before he opened the tub of lube, Stiles readjusted himself, then shoved the fabric down so his cock bounced up and down, finally stilling as it stood up against his stomach. Stiles gathered just enough lube in his fingers, making sure to rub it against his fingers before applying it to Derek's opening, then pressed inward. His finger slid in easily with the lube, and Derek's warm heat had Stiles' cock leaking with need. Stiles licked his dry lips as he pressed in a second finger. Derek took that just as easily. Stiles could only imagine what Derek did on his own, without prying eyes. He wanted to know, but didn't know how to ask. That was for another time, not when Stiles was about to fuck him for the first time. 

Stiles got another dollop of lube, pressing it into Derek, smearing it around his opening before pulling back. When he did, Derek rolled over, scooting closer to the edge of the bed so that he could drape his legs over the edge as Stiles put on the condom. Derek watched him, his own hand on his cock, stroking slowly. He flagged slightly with the prep, but as he jacked off his cock hardened once more. 

"You ready?" Stiles asked, unsure of what to say. Derek smiled up at him, nodding his head as he lifted his legs so Stiles could slide in easily. Stiles held onto Derek's hip with one hand, as the other guided his cock in slowly. Stiles gasped at the feel of it, his jaw dropping as he bottomed out against Derek. "Shit."

"Feels so good," Derek said as he closed his eyes. Stiles started moving, both hands on Derek's hips for leverage. "You feel so fucking good." Stiles thought that maybe he should be the one saying that, but he didn't have it in him to respond. 

Instead, he concentrated on moving his hips, on the feel of Derek beneath him, on himself inside Derek. Stiles groaned as his hands gripped Derek’s waist, giving himself better leverage for his thrusts. Derek moved along with him, his hands gripping tight to the sheets on either side of his body with his head thrown back. Stiles tried to watch Derek as he fucked him, but the entire thing was overwhelming. Derek must have noticed Stiles’ pace faltering, because he pushed himself up by an elbow and reached out for Stiles, bringing Stiles’ lips against his own. Stiles’ hands slid up Derek’s body as he bottomed out, slowly fucking into him as Derek held him close. 

Stiles panted against Derek’s open mouth, his eyes finding Derek’s as he stood back up straight, his hands sliding to Derek’s thighs, holding on as he quickened his pace. 

Derek jacked himself off as his back arched, his hips rolling and meeting each of Stiles’ thrusts. Stiles’ movements became stilted as he felt his climax approaching, his stomach tightening. He grunted, stilling for a moment as he came, then began moving within Derek once more until it all became too much. Derek’s legs fell as Stiles pulled out. They were both panting, but Derek wasn’t done yet. Stiles leaned forward, his tongue lapping at Derek’s head as he continued to stroke himself. 

Stiles did it again, and again, his tongue tasting the precome as it leaked from Derek’s head. Derek groaned as he grasped the base of his cock. Stiles’ chin was covered in Derek’s come, along with his chest. Derek sighed as his body relaxed, his eyelids heavy. 

“I’ll just... yeah,” Stiles said, his face reddening as he walked into the bathroom. He rid himself of his condom, then washed his face and chest before returning to the bedroom. When he did, Derek was under the covers. 

“Get in here,” Derek urged him. Stiles grinned as he crawled into bed, joining Derek. He draped a leg over Derek, his hand resting on Derek’s chest as he put his head against Derek’s shoulder. “You did good for your first time,” Derek murmured. 

“I thought I did rather well, yeah,” Stiles said with a smile as his finger traced an imaginary line around Derek’s chest. He looked at Derek, who looked ready to pass out. “But round two will be better.” The noise Derek made was something between laughter and humming, and it made Stiles’ toes curl. 

“Soon,” Derek told him. Stiles closed his eyes, thinking that a nap sounded like a good idea. He fell asleep to the rise and fall of Derek’s chest, their naked bodies entangled in the sheets.

When Stiles woke up, he was alone in bed, the spot beside him cool to the touch. Groggily, Stiles got out of bed, grabbing his briefs and slipping them on before he walked downstairs. Derek was on the couch, watching TV with a cup of tea in his hand, his hair a mess from earlier. He, too, was only wearing a pair of briefs. 

"There you are," Derek said as he took a sip of his tea. 

"Why didn't you wake me?" Stiles asked, his throat scratchy. It was later than he thought it was, which upset him. He slept away the afternoon. 

"Because you looked so peaceful," Derek said as Stiles sat down beside him, their legs pressed together, Stiles' arms wrapping around Derek. "I ordered us food," Derek told him. "Sushi." Stiles scrunched up his face. 

"Seafood."

"I got you some without seafood," Derek prodded. "Have you never had it?"

"Nope," Stiles said. 

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Derek mused. 

"Gonna answer the door in your briefs?" Stiles asked with a lifted eyebrow. 

"Why, jealous?" Derek asked as he tilted his head towards Stiles, who leaned in for a kiss. 

"No," Stiles said against Derek's lips. "Just seems a bit... improper." 

"I've got some sweats down here," Derek promised him as he set down his tea, then went back to kissing Stiles.Somehow, Stiles ended up on his back, with Derek moving against him as he straddled Stiles. Stiles' hand slid inside Derek's briefs, groping Derek's ass as they kissed. He couldn't get enough of Derek's touch, of his hands roaming Derek's body. Derek grunted as they kissed, his erection pressing against Stiles'. With his free hand, Stiles yanked on Derek's hair just enough so that he could lick up his neck, his mouth sucking so as to leave a mark. 

The doorbell rang, making them both groan out in frustration. Derek tore himself away from Stiles, leaving him on the couch, legs splayed open and panting. Stiles watched as Derek slipped on the aforementioned sweatpants, knowing that his erection would still be apparent. He went to the door, with wallet in hand, and paid for the food. Stiles could hear them talking, but couldn't see them and wanted to stay hidden. 

The last thing they needed was a delivery boy claiming he saw two half-naked, fucked out looking footballers together. Stiles sat up as soon as the door shut, his eyes watching Derek as he made his way into the kitchen. 

"Food," Derek proclaimed as he set everything down on the countertop. 

They both ate, then found their way back on the couch, where they continued kissing and rutting against each other until it was too much to bear. The second round had Stiles on his knees on Derek's bed, his face pressed into the mattress as Derek rode him from behind, with his ass in the air. Stiles moaned out with each deep, hard thrust. It was different than last time, and Stiles wondered how many different ways there were to have sex, how different each position would feel. 

He decided, as Derek lay on top of him, flattening him against the mattress, his arms hooking around Stiles' as his mouth trailed across Stiles' shoulder, that he liked Derek's lube more than his. It was slicker, thicker, and made each movement easier. Open-mouthed, Stiles cried out as he came between the sheets. Derek's thrusts slowed, but the intensity didn't as he rocked his hips against Stiles' ass. 

"I made you come without touching you," Derek said, his smile apparent as he pressed his lips against Stiles' ear. Stiles grunted as he panted, his eyes shut tight because of overstimulation. Derek wasn't through, and Stiles' could already feel how sore he would be the next day, despite the endorphins of sex. 

"Fuck off," Stiles said without malice, his fingers linking with Derek's as Derek lifted Stiles back up onto his knees. Stiles gasped at each movement as Derek continued fucking him. His legs were shaking as he buried his face into the sheets, crying out as Derek stilled his thrusts long enough to come deep inside him. When Derek pulled out and disposed of the condom, Stiles collapsed onto the bed, avoiding the cool, wet, sticky spot where he came earlier. His legs felt like he had just run five miles, and his body was humming from his orgasm. As Derek joined him in bed, Stiles pulled him close. With his back pressed against Derek’s chest, their fingers intertwined, Stiles wished that he didn’t have to leave him in the morning. 

Derek placed a kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck, then sighed. 

“We can do this,” Derek said. Stiles nodded, his eyes closing. They had to figure out how to make this work. The next International Break was in March, too far away for Stiles’ liking. On top of that, he was pretty sure it didn’t matter, because he probably wouldn’t be called up again. He tried not to think about it as he brought Derek closer to him, brushing his lips across their linked fingers. 

“We can.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am lagging behind in answering comments due to me avidly writing this fic (I am up to 83.k so far!) but know this: the sheer amount of feedback I have been getting as floored me completely. I thought this would be a niche fic, where only a few people would be interested, so THANK YOU for reading and commenting. It really means a lot. 
> 
> That being said I want to take the time to thank the graphic artists who have made graphics for each chapter so far: [foreverblue_navy](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/66313080204/versus-by-secondstar-1-summary-at-age), [ leni](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/66833365692/versus-by-secondstar-3-summary-at-age), [stileslovesderek](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/67411379304/versus-by-secondstar-5-summary-at-age), [eeames](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/68182501653/attoliancrown-versus-by-secondstar-7), [qhuinn](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/68531962129/versus-by-secondstar-8-summary-at-age), [akissforabite](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/69038258106/versus-by-secondstar-9-summary-at-age), and this week's chapter's graphic is by [nevertrustawildone](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/69558405606/versus-by-secondstar-10-15-summary-at-age)
> 
> also, if you want to check out a playlist made by leni for Versus it can be found [here](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com/post/68102562601/ri-val-ry-noun-ri-v-l-re-listen)
> 
> as always, if you have any questions regarding footie or just want to chat about versus you can find me [here](http://attoliancrown.tumblr.com)

Besides Manchester United, the biggest rivalry with Liverpool is Everton. The two teams are both based out of Liverpool, one red and one blue, and nothing is more important than the derby, the match between the two of them. Each team plays each other twice in a season, once at home and once away. The first derby of the season, Liverpool were playing Everton away, at the Everton stadium, Goodison Park. 

Before the match, as always, Stiles spent the night at Scott's. He wasn't expecting to hear from Derek at all, but when he got a simple 'good luck' text from him, it made Stiles' night. He was going to be in the starting XI, and Derek knew it, so getting a text from him made Stiles' heart beat faster. 

The match itself was filled with tension, not only between the players, but the fans themselves. Everton's fans chanted songs to the tune of Liverpool chants, but changed the words. Stiles could never tell who chanted the loudest at Goodison, but all he knew was that he had to tune out the songs that were shouted. It was a distraction he didn't need. 

He scored within the first five minutes. It was a quick shot, taken from an opening as he was passed the ball. The goal gave him the confidence he needed after a bad International Break, and set the tone of the overall match. Three minutes after Stiles scored, Everton equalized. Stiles knew then that the match would be a tough one, but he had faith that they could pull through and get their three points to get on top of the table, to be number one and kick Arsenal out of their position. 

Luis Suarez made it 1-2 ten minutes later, making the Liverpool fans in the stadium chant his name. By the end of the half, Stiles was exhausted because of all the running he had done. It wasn't often that there were three goals in a match before halftime, and Stiles wasn't the only one that got a leg massage before they headed out onto the pitch, hoping to keep the lead. 

It didn't happen, though. Romalu Lukaku, the Everton Striker, scored twice in ten minutes, not only equalizing, but putting them ahead of Liverpool with less than ten minutes left on the clock. Stiles's muscles were screaming at him and he was half relieved and half pissed off at the fact that he was subbed off, with Daniel Sturridge replacing him. 

Stiles was sure that Everton were going to win, that they would be left with zero points. From the bench, he watched as Daniel scored, minutes after being subbed on. The game ended in a draw, leaving Stiles torn about how to feel. They fought hard for the single point, as did Everton. The match ended with seven yellow cards, which was high, and he was surprised that no one had received a second. 

Stiles spent his Sunday nights watching Manchester United's match of the week. He'd curl up on the couch, and watch Derek run around on his screen. He didn't watch it for anyone else, and knew Derek by how he ran. Even if he couldn't see his number, he could find Derek on the screen within seconds. It became a habit, watching Derek play on Sundays. With no International Duty, they worked out a system. On their days off, they saw each other.

Some weeks, they couldn't meet up, mostly because of Champions League. Stiles tried not to count the days since the last time he had his hands on Derek's skin. Instead, he made sure that they had plans in place. They texted like they had in London and Skyped as often as possible. 

Stiles looked forward to their Skype sessions. They were open with each other, and usually spent an hour just talking. Stiles loved seeing Derek's face, getting to watch his mannerisms. It was the closest they got to each other for three weeks in February, because of how busy both of them were. Manchester was still in the Champions League, and Liverpool was in the top five in the League, fighting to keep their position so they could be in Champions League next year. 

They didn't only talk during their time on Skype, though. Stiles learned a lot about Derek, about his kinks, and about his dislikes. He might not be able to touch Derek, but that didn't mean he couldn't make him come. They had sex, via Skype, about twice a week. Stiles liked it, because they both could get fucked at the same time. Sometimes he liked watching Derek, just jacking off as he watched Derek fuck himself on a dildo. Sometimes Derek did the same, but Stiles' favorite was when they tried different things. 

Like when Stiles bought a butt plug. 

He hadn't told Derek he was doing it, so when he signed on Skype, with Derek already shirtless and waiting, Stiles grinned as he opened the package for Derek to see. It was small, black, not too big, because Stiles liked when Derek stretched him out. Stiles could tell from Derek's look that he wished he were there, with Stiles, and that was what mattered. 

It would make their reunion sex that much better when they got to see each other again. 

"You going to use that on yourself?" Derek asked. Stiles rolled his eyes, then smirked at the camera. 

"No, I thought it would make a good bedside decoration," he said as he stripped off his shirt, then shimmied out of his jeans, standing just enough to tease Derek. 

"Are you-" Derek began to say, his voice catching, "are you wearing a jock strap?" He asked. Stiles bent over, looking into the camera with an evil smile. 

"You sure are paying attention," Stiles said. "Good job." Derek grunted in response. 

"Bend over for me," he said. Stiles complied, turning around and bending over for him. He linked his thumbs around the elastic bands that were wrapped around his thighs, then snapped them against his skin. In the months that they have been doing this, Stiles has become more comfortable with his sexuality, especially when it came to Derek. Some days, they talked about their fears, about what they wanted out of everything they were doing, but on nights like this one, there was no talking about life or football. This was about them, about pleasure, and about coming. 

Stiles moved his hands, spreading his cheeks for Derek, his neck twisting so he could look into the camera, to see Derek. Derek's hands were missing, which was a good sign. 

"Do you have the cock ring on?" Stiles asked casually. They both liked to last a long time when they were Skyping, and Derek bought them both cock rings to help in that. 

"I do," Derek said, gulping as he pushed up off his chair enough to show Stiles his erection, along with the black ring around the base of his cock. "Are you?" Derek asked him. Stiles shook his head, sighing as he turned back around, showing Derek the front of his jock strap. It wasn't one of the normal ones he wore when he played football. This was one he bought for Derek. It was black, just like his new toy. Stiles was meticulous about his toys, and one thing was that he liked them all to match. He didn't know why he liked black toys, but it made him harder, thinking about how everything went together. Derek's were eclectic. He didn't care about the color, just the function. 

"I want you to watch me," Stiles told him as he cupped himself through the jockstrap, bouncing himself before he moved to grab the tub of lube he bought to match Derek's. 

"I can do that," Derek said as he sat back against his chair. He was situated at his desk, whereas Stiles' computer was facing his bed, so he could lie on it. Stiles twisted open the lube, dipping his fingers in, getting a generous amount and rubbing it between his fingers. 

"Do you think I should be on my back, or my knees?" Stiles asked seriously. Derek took a moment to think before answering him. 

"Knees to stretch, I think it'd be easier."

"You should be here to do this," Stiles said lightly. They usually mentioned how much they'd rather be together at least twice during a session. Derek didn't respond to him, but Stiles hadn't expected him to as he got on his knees, pressing his head against the mattress so he could get a good angle. He spread lube over his hole, then pressed inward with one finger. It went in easily, and Stiles spread his legs farther as he began fucking himself on it, adding a second when he was ready. 

He could hear Derek panting, along with the sound of him jacking off. Stiles closed his eyes as he pushed in a third finger, moaning loudly as he crooked them. 

"Fuck, you look so good," Derek groaned as Stiles sat up, applying more lube to his ass before he grabbed the first toy. He wanted to work up to his new one, so he reached for a small, slender, black vibrator. 

He turned it on, then bent back over, but not before looking at Derek, who was leaning back against his seat with his head tilted back, his mouth open slightly as his arm moved. Stiles could see just the head of Derek's cock from the angle Derek had the camera at, but Stiles could imagine what Derek looked like as he jacked off. 

Stiles rubbed the vibrator against his opening, sliding it up and down it before he pressed it inward. It slid in easily and felt amazing. Stiles moaned, biting down on his bottom lip as he moved it in and out. His toes curled at the feeling. He closed his eyes as he pulled it out, then shoved it back in again. He could hear Derek grunting and groaning over the sound of the vibrator. Stiles made sure to show Derek his ass, without the toy, every so often. When they fucked, Derek liked pulling out just to look at Stiles' ass, to admire it. Stiles knew Derek liked it, that it got him off. It made his cheeks flush, still, when he did it, because of how much Derek liked it. 

When Stiles was ready to go to the plug, he rolled over onto his back, then sat up, reaching for the sleek black piece. He diligently covered it in the lube, then laid back down, spreading his legs and lifting them into the air. With his head off the bed, he watched Derek scoot closer to the screen so he could see Stiles better. It made Stiles smirk, knowing what he was doing to Derek. 

Stiles pressed the end of the plug against his opening, his mouth falling open as he forced it in. He moaned, his head falling back against the bed as the widest part of it filled him, and the end of it pressed against his ass. The pressure was more than he thought it would be. It was wider than Derek, and stretched him more than he was used to. He lay there, panting with his legs in the air, his hands resting on his stomach. He had played a lot with his ass over Skype, with beads and vibrators, along with dildos, but this was different. This just stayed there, stretching him, making him feel full and whole. He reached between his legs, his fingers ghosting over the flat part of the plug, his body shaking as he tapped it multiple times. He saw fireworks against his eyelids as he did it, and he could feel the precome dripping from his neglected cock. 

"Jack off with that in you."

Derek's voice broke through the silence, bringing Stiles back to reality. He lifted his head, looking at Derek as he moved the jockstrap out of the way to reveal his erection. He pressed against it so it would stand up straight instead of laying against his stomach, so Derek could see how slick it was with precome before he stroked it, his wrist flicking, paying attention to his head so that he could come faster. He was worked up, and it wouldn't take long. Stiles panted, moaning as he shifted on the bed. Each movement made him feel more full, made him see stars. 

"Take it out," Derek urged him. Stiles got to his knees, knowing that this is why he bought it: to show Derek what he looked like stretched wide. He gripped the plug, then pulled it out slowly. 

"Fuck," Derek said at the same time Stiles did. He felt empty, and wanted to stick it back in him. Instead, he spread his legs further, then ghosted his fingers across his opening. It was slick with lube, and he slid a finger in, feeling how loose he was now. He groaned as he added a second, then started fucking himself as he wrapped his other hand around his cock. It didn't take him long to come, and he heard Derek come as well, shouting out a final "God damn." 

Stiles had a wash cloth handy, and wiped his chest clean, as well as his fingers and ass. He'd take a shower later, after they got off Skype, but for now the wash cloth would do just fine. He rid himself of the jockstrap, replacing it with a pair of briefs, then pulled up a chair to sit in. Derek was cleaned up as well, and put a shirt on. It was normal, because Derek often got cold after his body calmed down. 

"You were amazing," Derek said as he sat back down in his chair after changing. Stiles beamed as he put an elbow on the table and rested his head on it. 

"You know, I was thinking," Stiles pondered aloud. "Why don't we use toys on each other? Like, when we are together?" 

"Hmm," Derek said as he looked around his room, like he was thinking about what he had. Stiles' things were in a pile, ready to be cleaned later before he showered. "We could. What did you have in mind?" He asked. 

"I don't know," Stiles said with a shrug. "Just to see." 

"I'd like to have fun with that plug you just bought," Derek mused. 

"You mean on yourself or-"

"On you," Derek said with a smirk. Stiles wanted to shiver as he thought about Derek's hands on him with the plug in his ass. 

"I can get behind that," Stiles said as he pulled up his calendar. He wished he could see Derek sooner rather than later, even though he knew that they couldn't. After months, they had a routine worked out, and it was rare that they got to break it. Stiles' lip stuck out as he thought about how International Break was approaching, and he hadn't heard a word from Roy about a call up. It was still early, but that didn't mean he hasn’t been worried about it. 

He had been playing well at Liverpool, besides a two-week injury he got after a match against Stoke. Derek cursed them because they always fouled harshly. Stiles had come home after going to the doctor with two voicemails filled with Derek's shouting about how absurd the tackle had been, and that it had deserved a red card, even though it barely warranted a yellow. 

They kept to their houses, when they saw each other. Spending more time at Derek's than at Stiles’, Stiles had been late to training three times the day after because he hadn't wanted to leave Manchester. He had gotten a fine for it, but he didn't care. Being with Derek had been worth it. 

A week before the International Break, when England would be playing Denmark in a friendly, the call up list came out. Stiles hadn't gotten a call, so when he saw his name scroll across the screen on Sky Sports, he shouted and jumped up off of his couch. He would get to spend more than a stolen evening with Derek, and that had him reeling as he called his dad to share the news. 

"I get a second chance!" Stiles said into the receiver as he paced around his bedroom. 

"I knew you would, son. You're too good for him not to call up. If he kept you from the squad because of-"

"Dad, your blood pressure," Stiles said with a sigh as he tugged at his hair. "Well, I'm on the team, so we don't have to worry about that." 

"Which is good," his dad said. "Because if-"

"Dad, let's not, alright? It's okay. I'll have Derek there, and Jackson isn't even called up, so." Stiles told his dad about Derek, which took a bit to explain, since the last his father had heard, Stiles had hated Derek. Stiles assured him he only disliked Derek on days when Manchester got points and Liverpool didn't, as well as when they go into it over their two teams, which was rare because they avoided talking about the League as much as possible. 

"I am glad that little shit didn't get a call up," his dad sneered over the phone. 

"Well, he's got a knock," Stiles said as he sat on his bed. Stiles wished that Jackson hadn't been called up because of his lack of skill, but that wasn't the case. It was because Jackson took a bad tackle and had been out for two weeks and his manager, Jose Mourinho, refused to let England risk playing him for a friendly. "He'll probably still be going to Brazil," Stiles mumbled. 

The England vs Denmark match was, once again, in London. England had been lucky that their last couple of International Breaks had been set at home instead of away. Most teams had to travel to the different countries they were playing, but so far Stiles hadn't. He wondered how different it would be when they went to the World Cup, because it wouldn't be taking place in just one Brazilian city, but many. There weren't enough stadiums for it to be in just one, so not only would they be traveling to Brazil, but they would be moving across the country as well. 

Stiles was going to have to find himself a new show soon, because he was almost done with _Lost_ by the time he got to London. He was used to it by now, grabbing his keys from Erica, then going up to his room. This break, his roommate was Martin Kelly, which was a relief. It was the first time Stiles really roomed with a friend, so it was a different experience altogether. They went down to the gym together before dinner, then took turns showering quickly before heading to dinner together. Derek wasn't sitting anywhere near him, which normally, Stiles would be upset about, but he had Martin and Jordan Henderson nearby, so he was able to keep up a conversation with them for the duration. 

He wasn't sure what was so different this time, maybe it was just him getting used to the England side, or with traveling, but he wasn't as nervous as Roy announced the starting XI against Denmark. Stiles was in the line-up, along with Derek and others. This would be their last time playing a match before the World Cup, and it gave Stiles a lot of hope that he would be called up for the tournament because he was starting. 

During training the day before the match, he paired up with Derek to stretch. They hadn't done it the entire time, keeping their heads down about how close they were because of the last break. They were sitting on the ground, reaching towards each other, fingers linked as they stretched their hamstrings. 

"Is everything okay?" Derek asked quietly so no one around them could hear. Stiles' brow furrowed in confusion, unsure about what Derek was talking about. 

"How do you mean?" Stiles inquired. Derek's lips pressed together, his eyebrows knitted. Stiles gulped, realizing that they hadn't even attempted to steal away into an elevator to make out. "Oh."

"Are you mad at me for something?"

"What? No!" Stiles said a little too loud, bringing attention to himself as they stood up. "I'm not, I just haven't had time- Kels brought his PS4 with him," Stiles said guiltily. "We've been playing it, I didn't think about it." Stiles knew he was showing his age on this one. 

"I wasn't thinking," Stiles told him, his hand on Derek's shoulder as he held the back of his foot against his back, stretching his thigh. 

"It's fine," Derek said, even though Stiles could tell it wasn't. "I just want to see you, spend time with you."

"I know," Stiles swallowed, wishing he could just lean forward and kiss him then and there. "Tonight. Kels is holding a FIFA tournament in our room. Let's do something in yours." It would be risky, but Derek was sharing with Daniel Sturridge who would definitely be playing. "Say we are going to watch a movie."

"Okay," Derek said, leaning a little too close, as if he was going to kiss him. Stiles stopped stretching and backed away to distance themselves enough that it wouldn't be so hard. Being in close proximity with him was difficult, because they had become so used to touching each other. 

That evening, just as everyone was arriving to play the football game on the PS4, Stiles slipped out and headed to Derek's. He knocked lightly on the door, grinning when Derek answered it. Daniel was already down in Stiles and Martin's room, so he knew no one else would be in, except when he walked in, Derek wasn't alone. Jack Wilshere, Danny Welback, and Andy Carroll were in there. Stiles' eyebrows rose as he looked to Derek for an answer. 

"They heard about our movie night," Derek said loud enough that they could hear him. "They wanted in on it." Derek's voice was cheerful, but his eyes told Stiles how upset he was. Stiles tried to police his facial expression because he wouldn't get his time alone with Derek. 

"The more the merrier," Stiles said as he clapped his hands and walked inside. Danny took the chair, while Jack and Andy took one bed, leaving the other for Derek and Stiles, thankfully. Stiles would have gotten upset if they had been made to sit separately. He was pretty sure he would have left, if he was being completely honest with himself. Before they managed to pick a movie, Leighton Baines and Ashley Young knocked on the door to join them. Ashley sat with Derek and Stiles, making Stiles sit in the middle of the bed, pressing up against the both of them, but leaning more on Derek. Stiles was actually glad of it, because it gave him an excuse to be closer to Derek. 

They ended up watching _The Conjuring_ and even turned off all the lights in the room so it would be pitch black. It had been Stiles' idea, and he had done it on purpose so he could hold Derek's hand. Derek's thumb moved back and forth across the back of Stiles' hand and he had to stop himself multiple times from resting his head on Derek's shoulder. 

Well, he did, until he looked over at the other bed where Andy was passed out, his head on Leighton's shoulder, his mouth open in a silent snore. Stiles held in a laugh, then relaxed more against Derek. Beside him, Ashley moved up the bed, laying on his stomach. He took a pillow with him, putting his head at the end of the bed, giving Derek and Stiles more privacy without realizing it. Stiles rest his head against Derek's shoulder, knowing no one would say anything about it because of Andy. 

It was nice, just sitting there watching a movie with their fellow teammates, being themselves and it not mattering. When the movie ended, Stiles was the one to turn on the lights, so no one really noticed that he had been leaning on Derek. He left with the others, giving Derek a farewell glance before the door shut. 

The match itself went off without a hitch. Denmark won the toss and did the kick-off, and Stiles managed to get in two shots on goal in the first ten minutes. Going head to head against Daniel Agger was a bit off-putting because Stiles had never been on an opposite side of the Liverpool defender. Daniel was the captain of the Danish National Team, and Stiles was having a hard time keeping away from him whenever he got the ball because Daniel knew him so well. It was like Daniel could read his mind. 

Twenty-five minutes in, there was a corner kick for England. Steven was taking it, and Stiles was in the middle of a group of Danes. He jumped up as the ball went into the air, coming straight for them. Stiles managed contact with the ball, heading it towards the goal, but after he did so he was knocked violently to the ground. He screamed, because something was wrong. He heard the whistle blowing as he lay there, clutching his thigh. It felt as though he had gotten kicked, but the ball had been in the air, and nowhere near enough to the ground for anyone to think kicking it would work. 

That was when he heard the shouting. Stiles managed to look up to find Derek head to head with Nicklas Bendtner, the Danish forward. With tears in his eyes, Stiles tried to stretch his leg. His muscles spasmed as he cried out. The referee was there, as well as Stevie and Danny, the two of them asking if he was alright instead of dealing with Derek and Nicklas. 

"You piece of fucking shit, there was no way you were going for the ball!" Derek shouted, getting in Nicklas' face. Nicklas shoved at Derek, which had Daniel getting to his feet, leaving Stiles to help break the two of them apart. Stiles was angry at Derek for starting a fight because he was going to get a yellow because of it. Phil Dowd was their referee, and Stiles wasn't sure what he would do about the situation. He felt Stevie's hand on the back of his head, asking him if he could move it. Stiles nodded, still not able to do anything but inhale air. 

He was done for, it hurt too much. The match was over for him. 

"Get someone," Stiles managed to say. "I can't get up." Steven nodded, looking to the physios who were on standby to come onto the field. The whistle blew, and two cards went into the air, one red and one yellow. Stiles closed his eyes, because he knew one of them was for Derek. 

They brought a stretcher, which made Stiles feel even worse. Steven stepped back so that they could put him on it. As they lifted him onto it, the stadium began clapping for him. He was able to remain sitting, and not lying, thankfully. Nicklas was already walking off the field for his foul, and for fighting. He got an automatic red for it, and England got a penalty kick. Stiles was taken straight down the tunnel, where Deaton could look him over in their locker room. 

Stiles was shaking as Deaton handled him. Apparently he had gotten a kick to the thigh. It could be a tear, or it could just be badly bruised, but they wouldn't know until later. Stiles was put into a bath to help relax the muscle, as well as given an injection for the pain. He joined the team on the bench for the second half, but he was numb from the entire situation. England was winning 1-0 because of the penalty kick that Steven took, but Denmark were defending well considering they were down a player. 

He barely paid attention, deciding that zoning out would be better. Stiles had his hands on his thigh, holding it as his eyes watched the back and forth of the ball on the pitch. The only thing he could think about was how long he could be out for. If his injury was a tear, it could be weeks or months, but if it was a strain it would be less. That was why Deaton didn't massage the muscle, in case it was a tear. He wouldn't want to damage it further than it already was. 

At some point, Deaton handed Stiles ice for it, which he kept on, his teeth chattering because of the cold. By the time the whistle blew, the score still stood at 1-0 to England. As everyone got up, Stiles stayed, not wanting to use the crutches they had given him just yet, not with tons of people standing about. 

Eventually, Steven was there, as was Derek, helping him to his feet. Derek took his bag of ice, and Steven put his hand on Stiles back as he got the crutches under his arms. At Steven's kind touch, tears filled Stiles' eyes -- he was injured. This wasn't some knock to the ankle, this was an honest to god injury and he'd be out, wouldn't be able to play. Stiles felt like he was going to be sick as they made their way down the tunnel, to the locker room. They were stopped by Daniel Agger and Nicklas Bendtner, who apologized. Afterward, Daniel told him he'd see him at Melwood. 

Stiles waited on a bench in the locker room, the ice on his thigh once more. Everyone was excited that they won their last match before the World Cup and all Stiles could think about is how he wouldn't be called up. He'd miss the Cup, would have to wait another four years in order to play in it. Derek was the one to help Stiles up, this time, urging him to get onto the bus, where he sat down next to Stiles in the front row. 

Martin Kelly helped Stiles pack his things, and put them on a cart for a busboy to take down to the bus. It was a short International Break, and Liverpool had a match that weekend. Stiles didn't even get to say goodbye to Derek as he was ushered onto the bus. With his phone in hand, Stiles typed out that he was sorry, that he wanted to see Derek but couldn't. In reply he got a simple 'it's okay.’

When Stiles arrived at Melwood, his father was there to drive him home, since Stiles couldn't drive. He felt like a child, having his father chauffeur him around town. The next day, he was driven to the doctor, where they told him it was a tear, and that he would be out for two to three months. It being March, meant that Stiles could actually miss the World Cup, and that he was definitely out for the rest of the season. Stiles broke down at the doctor's, his head in his hands as his father tried to calm him down. 

"Son, that is just a guess on their part, you could be better by the end of April if you rest, then do your physiotherapy," he said, attempting to keep Stiles' hopes high. "You will be able to go to the Cup."

"He won't call me up if I've been injured," Stiles said as he wiped his face. "It'll be too risky. Why waste a spot with someone who might not last a match?" Stiles said, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe properly. "I'm not going," Stiles said through gritted teeth. "If we all realize that now, then I won't be disappointed when it doesn't happen." 

Later that day, Stiles heard from Brendan Rodgers, where he told Stiles to rest up, that he wanted Stiles to take the time to recover fully. Then, Stiles got a call from Roy Hodgson. 

"I heard the news," Roy told him. Stiles was laying on his dad's couch, feeling as numb as could be emotionally. He had enough of talking to people about his injury. "I wanted to call and tell you that, if you are fit enough by the end of May, that there will be a spot for you on the squad."

"What?" Stiles said, sitting up. "But you said my performance wasn't-"

"You are going places, Stiles, and you're only nineteen. If I don't have you in my squad this summer, England would regret it. You get better and we will go from there."

"Yes, sir," Stiles said.

After they got off the phone, Stiles felt better, although he was beside himself over the fact that he'd be missing the rest of the season. Derek came to visit after the weekend on his day off. They spent the day on the couch, watching movies and eating popcorn, taking breaks to kiss until they didn't know what was happening on the screen. What they didn't do was talk about Stiles' injury. Stiles told Derek flat out before he came over that there was to be no talk of it, even though he knew that Derek wouldn't be able to keep that promise. Stiles just wanted to spend time with him, time that they hadn't gotten in London. 

When they were into the second movie, Derek couldn't hold it in any longer. 

"I can come visit you every chance I get," Derek said. He had his arm around Stiles, who had been half asleep before Derek started talking. "I don't want you to come up to Manchester if you can barely get around."

"I can get around," Stiles mumbled petulantly. 

"You can't drive," Derek pointed out. "Do you want your dad to carpool you to Manchester?"

"No," Stiles said, exasperated. "I just don't want to be injured."

"Well, look at it this way, now you won't have to play me this weekend," Derek said with a smirk. "And without you in the side, my team will get three points."

"Oh, fuck off," Stiles said, pushing at Derek. 

"That was a compliment," Derek mused as he kissed Stiles' forehead. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

"Backhanded, you mean. 'Your team will lose because you're injured', good job. Some boyfriend you are," Stiles said, then stilled. They still hadn't had that talk, hadn't given themselves a label. They were still riding on the 'casual' term, even though they were past that in every single way. 

"Stiles, you know we're together," Derek said with a little eye roll of his own. "So why do you tense up whenever you mention it?" 

"I assumed, since you know, we haven't actually said it, that we weren't."

"Huh," Derek said, as if pondering. "Well, I assumed we were boyfriends when we started Skyping every week and saw each other every day off." Which was months ago. Stiles thought they were faux casual this entire time, while Derek had been rolling with them being a couple: a real couple. 

"Yeah," Stiles said. "That makes sense." Derek laughed. 

"You honestly thought we were still casual? Is that what you want-"

"No, oh god no," Stiles said, flailing around. "I want to be with you, just you. I have no plans of being with someone else, so," Stiles reddened, not sure if he said too much. Apparently it wasn't, because Derek was kissing him. It was slow, with his hands cupping Stiles' face, their lips brushing tenderly. Stiles liked it, but he would rather Derek be rougher with him. 

"I'm not gonna break," Stiles mumbled against Derek's lips. The kiss deepened, but Derek didn't move to do anything else. Stiles squirmed in his seat, knowing that Derek wasn't going to do more, not until Stiles at least was walking properly. After awhile, they went back to watching the movie. When it was over, and Derek was getting ready to go home, he hovered over Stiles as he stood, his hands in his pockets, a look of worry playing across his face. 

"What's up?" Stiles asked as he rearranged his leg, trying to stretch it a little without making it hurt. 

"I want you to come to the derby," Derek blurted out. Stiles' eyebrows skyrocketed. 

"Derek," Stiles said, shaking his head. "I can't go to the derby." Derek wanted Stiles to go to the Manchester vs. Liverpool match in Manchester that weekend. "You know I can't."

"I can get you box tickets."

"You want me to sit in the Manc box?" Stiles asked, his voice rising. "Do you want me to get things thrown at me?" Stiles asked, his voice breaking. 

"No, I mean, Liverpool has boxes too, away boxes. Or you could sit in my box."

"I am not sitting in your box during the fucking derby," Stiles hissed. The hurt look on Derek's face made Stiles deflate. "I just, I'm not doing well, okay? Getting there would be hard, and I'll be photographed and shown on the telly and I just-"

"You're not ready," Derek supplied. 

"I'm not ready," Stiles mumbled, looking away from Derek. "But," Stiles said with a sigh. "I could go and root for my own team. My dad would like it." 

"Yeah?" Derek asked. Stiles nodded. 

"If we get tickets in the away section, in a box, I'll go. No Manc seats," Stiles said, wagging a finger at Derek. "I won't be seen there."

"Consider it done," Derek said, kissing Stiles one more time before he headed back to Manchester. Somehow, Stiles had to be ready to go to Manchester at the weekend.


	11. Chapter 11

"I can't believe you got us box seats!" Stiles' father said as they walked up to Old Trafford, Manchester United's stadium. Stiles pursed his lips, because his father knew damn well how Stiles got the tickets. Derek had given them to him and assured him they were on the away side. His father was wearing his old Dalglish number seven kit, while Stiles sported his favorite, Xabi Alonso's kit from the 2005 Champions League Final. It may be cliche for him to wear a kit of another player when he played for the team, but he was here as a spectator, not as a player. 

He was still on crutches, but he barely leaned on them as he walked carefully. Of course, he was stopped multiple times by fans asking for pictures or autographs of him. It took them twice as long to get to their seats, and once there, Stiles sighed with relief. 

"I am so ready for this to be over," Stiles said. Either way, his and Derek's relationship would be strained. He felt a knot in his stomach, anxiety filled him as the stadium filled with people. It was a cool day, so Stiles was wearing a coat on top of having a Liverpool scarf wrapped around his neck. 

"When was the last time you got to watch a match like this?" A man that sat beside Stiles asked. Stiles couldn't really recall.

"My guess is some time before I made first team," Stiles said. Saying it out loud gave him a new perspective towards the match. He was a spectator, and that meant he'd get to cheer and chant along with everyone else. He swelled with pride as he watched his team walk out along with United's. His eyes flicked to Derek for a moment as he and his dad stood up, but then he was watching his teammates get ready to play. 

Liverpool fans were known to be loud and to chant for almost the entire match. As the whistle blew, this was no different. Stiles clapped with everyone, screamed when a pass went amiss. United held most of the possession, but Liverpool were pressing, and getting the ball out of their half whenever they got the chance. 

As usual for a United vs. Liverpool match, tension was high between the players and Stiles could tell by the way everyone was fouling that it would be a match full of yellow cards, perhaps even a red. The only thing was, he wasn't sure who it would be. Lucas Leiva was the first to receive a card for a harsh tackle on Nani. Stiles screamed because, from where he sat, Nani dove. Diving in football was an art. Everyone did it, at some point or another, but those who did it excessively or horribly were looked down on. An infamous diver, Fernando Torres, used to fall over at every tackle, hoping for the tackler to get a card each time. Stiles didn't dive, often. He could count on his hand the times he had, and it was usually in high tension situations, not at the drop of a hat. Nani was one of those players who tended to dive, so Stiles cursed his name along with the fans around him. It got his blood pumping, shouting and chanting along with the rest of the crowd. 

Shortly afterward, Liverpool got a free kick near the United box. The set piece resulted in Steven Gerrard scoring in the 35th minute. A resounding chorus of Stevie's song filled the stadium, and Stiles found himself cupping his mouth and shouting it as loud as he could. 

_"Steve Gerrard Gerrard, he'll pass the ball forty yards, he's big and his fucking hard, Steve Gerrard Gerrard!"_

United kicked off again with the roar of Liverpool fans chanting the words to ‘The Fields of Anfield Road.’ Stiles sang along, but he sat because his thigh was beginning to bother him. He watched diligently, finding himself standing not even minutes later. He leaned on the the edge in front of him, taking the weight off his leg. There was a buildup to United's equalizer, he felt it coming as Derek got hold of the ball and ran with it. Stiles grabbed hold of his father's coat, shaking him as Derek shot at the goal, scoring for his team. Stiles beamed, but to the confusion of those around him. 

He tried to suppress his happiness for Derek, and ended up covering his mouth with a hand to keep it hidden. The man next him was eyeing him oddly, but Stiles didn't care. They were even before the end of the half, and Stiles couldn't have hoped for a better outcome to the first half of the match. Steven scored, Derek scored, it was an even playing field. The possession had been heavy on United's side, and so far there had been no fights. 

Stiles sat for the half-time, talking with those around him about his injury, about how they all hoped he was going to the World Cup. Stiles tried to smile, to give them words of encouragement, but it was hard to do so when he didn't feel it for himself. He was glad when the whistle blew, setting off the second half. 

It was goalless until the 80th minute, when a mistake during a corner kick had Danny Welbeck score an own goal, giving Liverpool the lead 1-2. Stiles crossed his fingers for the last ten minutes, plus stoppage time, and when there was a minute left on the clock, he and all of the Liverpool fans started singing ‘You'll Never Walk Alone’ at the top of their lungs. He lifted his scarf in the air, as did his father with his own, along with everyone around them. As the whistle blew at Old Trafford, Liverpool left with three points, and United with zero. 

Stiles and his dad remained at their seats, waiting for most of the crowd to leave before they headed to their car. His dad drove to a restaurant where Derek had booked a private room, and they entered by themselves. Within a few minutes, Derek arrived with his hair still wet. Despite the loss, he had a smile on his face and kissed Stiles on the lips before he sat down. 

Just as he did, the waitress walked in, gathering their drink orders. Derek ordered a bottle of wine for them all to share. 

"Wine?" Stiles asked with a raised eyebrow. They didn't drink often because of how much they trained, but Derek's look said everything: this was a special occasion. 

"Congrats on the win," Derek said.

"It was a hard-won match," Stiles' father said honestly. Derek nodded his head in agreement, but Stiles felt how disappointed Derek was in the result. He didn't want to rub it in. 

"Your goal was amazing," Stiles said, his voice low when the waitress returned. He didn't want to gush about it near her, just in case she read too much into it. 

"Are you ready to order?" She asked.

"Not just yet," Derek said, giving her a short smile. She left, shutting the door behind her. Stiles was glad that Derek thought ahead enough to get a private room. He cleared his throat once she was gone, getting Stiles' attention. 

"Like I said, your goal, I saw it coming," Stiles said as he took a sip of his wine before he continued. "I couldn't believe that build, it was like watching Beckham."

"Or Dalglish," his father added. Derek gave them both a smile before he took a sip of his own wine. 

"Glad of it," he said. "Just wish it had a different result is all." Stiles drummed his fingers against the table as he looked over the menu.

"Okay, change of subject, no more footie," Stiles said, looking up at Derek. "What's good here?"

"I always get the fish," Derek said with a smirk. Stiles made a face, gagging. "But I think you'd like the chicken, it's got a good marinade." 

"Oh, that does look good," Stiles said as he found it on the menu. 

"How is the recovery going?" Derek asked. Stiles harrumphed, then looked to his dad. 

"I've got a long way to go, it's barely been two weeks. Still got crutches, basically on bed rest," Stiles mumbled as he heard his phone going off. He took it out of his pocket to see that it was Brendan calling. Stiles' eyebrows lifted as he looked at Derek. "Uh, I have to take this." He hit answer call. "Sir?" Stiles asked into the receiver. 

"I saw that you were at the match today," Brendan said conversationally. "If you wanted to travel with the team, you could have."

"No, sir, I wanted to go with my father, no offense," Stiles said, attempting to laugh. "Is that okay?" He asked. He remembered a few years back when Steven was hurt, he went and sat in the stands with fans at an away match, he didn't see why this would be any different. 

"It's fine, Stiles, I was calling to check up with you."

"Oh," Stiles said, relaxing in his seat. "I'm doing well, brought my crutches with me."

"That's good to hear, lad. I wanted to tell you that Roy contacted me, he wants me to keep him updated on your progress. It seems he wants you back in the lineup for Liverpool before the end of the season. If you make at least one match, you'll be in the squad this summer." Stiles' eyes widened. He had to play for Liverpool at least once in order to be called up? That was a lot of pressure now. "Personally, I'd like you to play at least three matches to consider you ready for the World Cup."

"I see," Stiles said, deflating. There was no way that was possible. 

"Deaton wants you at Melwood first thing Tuesday morning to begin physiotherapy."

"I'll be there with bells on," Stiles assured him before Brendan hung up. "Shit," Stiles hissed. 

"They want you to play before May?" Derek asked with his arms crossed. 

"In May, yeah," Stiles grumbled. "Roy says one match, Brendan says three."

"That's a lot of pressure on you," his father said, clearly unhappy. "And dangerous."

"Well, if you're fit, then you're fit," Derek said with a shrug. "The best you can do is try, work hard for it and it can happen. Don't mope and let yourself think it isn't possible. Cristiano was injured in November, they told him he'd be out for two months, and he was back in six weeks."

"Well, Ronaldo is a machine," Stiles pointed out. "I am most certainly not."

"Let's not let this ruin our dinner," Stiles' father said, taking a drink of his wine. "I veto all talk about your injury as well."

"Sounds good," Derek said in agreement. 

The dinner itself went well. Stiles got into the car with Derek instead of his father, though. It was by valet, so whoever was outside saw them getting into Derek's car together, but Stiles didn't think anyone really noticed. Once to Derek's, Stiles realized how exhausted he was. He sat down on Derek's couch, leaning his crutches against the couch next to him, then leaned back and sighed. 

"Want something more comfortable to wear?" Derek asked as he took off his own coat and hung it up, then took Stiles' to do the same. 

"Yeah, actually, I would," Stiles said as he flipped on the TV and found the Match of the Day. He put it on mute as Derek went upstairs to change and grab Stiles something else to put on. 

When Derek returned with a pair of sweats and a shirt in hand, Stiles didn't want to move. He pouted as he reached a hand out for Derek to help him up. Derek did, pulling Stiles to his feet and into his arms. Stiles' lips found Derek's easily, a hand moving to Derek's neck as the other rested against Derek's chest. With closed eyes, Stiles kissed Derek open-mouthed, his head tilted to one side. He had wanted to kiss Derek at dinner, in the car, and as soon as they walked into the house, but he hadn't been able to. 

Derek was the one to break the kiss, his hand on Stiles' lower back sliding down enough to cup his ass. Stiles bit his lip, wishing they could fuck on the couch. He wanted Derek, but knew that Derek wouldn't risk Stiles injuring himself further. 

"Let's get that kit off of you," Derek grumbled as he started lifting it over Stiles' head. Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes at Derek's dislike of his attire. 

"Hey, this is my favorite kit," Stiles mumbled. 

"It's practically an antique," Derek said as he tossed it on the chair nearby. Stiles punched Derek in the arm, then let Derek dress him. The shirt Derek gave him was warm, and soft to the touch. It was long-sleeved, and slightly big on him, which he liked. When Derek undid Stiles' belt he grunted, wishing that this was going to lead to a blow job. As if reading Stiles' mind, Derek lifted an eyebrow as his fingers brushed over Stiles' briefs. 

"Don't tease me," Stiles chided. 

"You're already half hard," Derek said, half surprised, half turned on himself. Stiles shrugged as he licked his lips. 

"What do you expect?" Stiles asked. "Your hands are all over me and I haven't been fucked in a while." 

"How romantic," Derek deadpanned as his fingers outlined Stiles' growing erection. Stiles' hands reached out, clinging to Derek's shirt for support as Derek rubbed against the fabric. 

"Please do something before I get cranky," Stiles said, not in the mood for Derek's games. Derek pulled away, which made Stiles growl in frustration. "I'm not going to break."

"I know," Derek said as he shoved Stiles' jeans down his thighs. "Can I finish undressing you first? Maybe?" Derek said with lifted eyebrows. Stiles held onto Derek's shoulders as he stepped out of them carefully. "Now sit back down," Derek ordered. As Stiles sat, he adjusted himself over the fabric of his briefs. Derek got to his knees beside him, his hands sliding up and down Stiles' injured thigh slowly. Stiles leaned back against the couch, his head tilted back as Derek's fingers slipped beneath his briefs. Stiles gnawed at his lip as he watched Derek, his hands at his sides, not knowing what to do with them. 

"No more teasing," Stiles begged as Derek pulled down his briefs, revealing his cock. Derek hummed, his face stoic with concentration as he wrapped his hand around Stiles' erection, stroking down slowly. Stiles shifted in his spot, wanting to move his hips in order to quicken Derek's pace, but he knew that Derek would stop if he did. 

"No more teasing," Derek agreed as he leaned forward, his tongue hot and wet against the head of Stiles' dick. Stiles stretched out his leg as he moved his head so he could watch Derek blow him. He put a hand on Derek's head, his fingers carding through it as Derek's head bobbed. His mouth felt amazing on Stiles as his hand cradled Stiles' balls. Derek's index finger pressed against the back of Stiles' balls, making his toes curl as Derek sunk lower on Stiles' cock, making it hit the back of his throat. Stiles groaned as his back arched; Derek knew just what to do to get him to come quickly. 

Stiles didn't even try to last long, completely relaxing against the couch as Derek brought Stiles' climax closer with every lick and stroke. Derek swallowed him whole as he filled Derek's mouth with his come. When he backed away, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then made his way into the kitchen. As he did, Stiles noticed Derek's very obvious erection. 

"Come back over here," Stiles called out, lifting himself enough so he could look over the couch and into the kitchen. 

"I'm fine," Derek said from over the sink. 

"No, come back I want to blow you, too," Stiles whined, which made Derek smirk. He was getting a drink, and brought Stiles a glass of water along with his own. 

"I don't want you to hurt-"

"I have a plan," Stiles said, reaching his hands out, opening and closing them rapidly, wanting Derek within his reach. He pulled Derek onto the couch on his knees so that he was straddling him. Stiles looked up at Derek, grinning as his fingers hooked around the elastic of Derek's sweatpants, bringing them down enough to reveal his dick, hanging heavy between his legs. Stiles licked at it, from head to base, then mouthed at it. It was his turn to tease, now. It didn't take long before Derek's hips rocked against Stiles' mouth, dictating the pace as Stiles took Derek into his mouth. With a hand on either side of Stiles' face, Derek fucked Stiles' mouth shallowly. 

He stilled when his cock pressed against the back of Stiles' throat, where he kept it. With his hands on Derek's thighs, Stiles tapped against them when he was ready for Derek to pull back. With a gasp of air, Stiles wiped his mouth then opened it, ready for more. When Derek came down Stiles' throat, he swallowed it all, then licked a trail up Derek's stomach, burying his face in Derek's crotch, his nose pressing against the base of Derek's spent cock. 

"I wish I could do that everyday," Stiles said as Derek climbed off of him. 

"Someday," Derek said with a sigh. Stiles went quiet as he contemplated when that could be, if it could be possible. He wasn't so sure it was, but he wouldn't allow himself to go down that road when he had Derek next to him. They barely paid attention to the TV as they sat on the couch, fingers intertwined. 

Stiles went to physiotherapy every single day. Most of the time when he went, other teammates were at Melwood's gym as well, so he was never alone. He was usually there for an hour, maybe more, depending on what Deaton had in store for him. He did a lot of stretching, and eventually he got up to walking on the treadmill. The first day he was able to walk a mile, he called Derek afterward he was so happy. Recovery was slow going, but with each milestone, Stiles became more and more confident that he would be able to play for Liverpool before the end of the season. 

Stiles kept himself busy when he wasn’t at rehabilitation by tweeting. Almost every footballer had a Twitter account, but before his injury he rarely used it. He was amazed how many people cared about his recovery, and he got a kick out of replies that he got if he live-tweeted during matches. 

By the time that the Liverpool vs Manchester City match happened in mid-April, Stiles was jogging three miles a day and began training alone with a football. With a month left of regular League play, Stiles could practically feel his comeback in his hands. He worked hard for it, and needed it to happen. 

He went to almost all of Liverpool’s matches, sitting in the box at Anfield, or in regular seating at away matches. The only match Stiles didn’t attend was the match against Norwich, but that was because United was playing Everton that same day, at Goodison Park. Stiles watched the match from home, despite the fact that he wanted to go to it. If he did, he wouldn’t even know where he would want to sit, or who he would root for. He supposed he would root for Derek, but would hope for a draw. United was close to Liverpool on the table, and Stiles didn’t want his feelings for Derek to blind him of their standing in the table, a mere four points below them. A win from United with a loss from Liverpool would change everything. 

Liverpool won their match, as did United, which left Stiles in a good mood as he waited for Derek. Derek wasn’t traveling back to Manchester with his team. He had family, Laura, that lived in Liverpool, whom he was going to have dinner with and then he was coming to Stiles. 

He didn’t show up at the door until half past ten, but Stiles didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Derek, holding him close. He hadn't seen Derek in a few weeks, and the time apart was putting a strain on them. 

"Hey," Derek said, his hand rubbing circles along Stiles' back. "Why so down? You got three points," Derek joked as Stiles' hold on him tightened. 

"There are three matches left," Stiles murmured against Derek's neck. "Only three."

"Ah," Derek said with a knowing sigh. Three was the amount that they wanted out of him before the World Cup, and Stiles hadn't been back to training with the team yet. Time was running out. 

"I'm worried," Stiles told him as they made their way into Stiles' room. They lay on the bed, relishing the time they had together. Stiles trailed his fingers over Derek's body, taking his time as Derek did the same to him. Being recovered enough for sex, they fucked three times. Stiles' legs felt like jelly as they were draped across Derek's thighs. The touch of Derek's fingers against his skin made him push himself closer. Stolen nights were all they had, and it put Stiles in a mood once they were over. After being with Derek for over six months, Stiles wanted more. He wanted to see Derek more than perhaps once a week. He wanted to be able to go out, to walk around with him. He didn't want to hide, and that scared him. Derek shifted next to Stiles so he was facing him, his fingers carding through Stiles' hair. 

"I want us to go somewhere," Derek said, his voice low. 

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked as his played with the hair on Derek's stomach that lead down to his groin. "Like, where?"

"Like, we have time between the end of League play and the start of the World Cup. I want to go somewhere with you."

"That's-" Stiles began to say, but held back. "I'd like that, but I've got to stay and train." A look of disappointment washed over Derek's face, which made Stiles feel horrible, but it disappeared with a blink of an eye. 

"I didn't think about that," Derek said with a sigh. Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder, wishing there was time. 

"After the Cup," Stiles surmised. "We can go anywhere. We'll have the time, a whole month off. We could go everywhere." They'd be photographed, but that was something they'd deal with when it came to it. "Just traveling around."

"I'd like that," Derek said, kissing Stiles on the mouth. 

At physiotherapy on the Monday before Liverpool played Chelsea at home, Stiles insisted that he was ready to join the first team in training. Deaton wanted Stiles to wait another week, so Stiles showed Deaton he was ready by running five miles without stopping. On Tuesday, Stiles was with the first team for the first time in a month and some change. He wasn't match fit, but he was close to it. He took it easy the second day, and the third, but by Friday he thought he was ready. 

After training, Brendan took Stiles aside to talk to him. 

"Stiles, you've worked hard the past month trying to get yourself fit. I know Roy and I have put a lot of pressure on you, and you have come a long way, but I don't think you are fit enough to start tomorrow." It felt like a punch to the gut, but Stiles nodded his head at Brendan's decision. He was the manager, after all, and knew what was best for the team. 

"Yes, sir," Stiles said, not wanting it to show how disappointed he was. 

"To show Roy that we think you are match fit, though, I am going to put you on the bench." Stiles' mood immediately picked up. He would take being a sub, he would take anything he could get. 

"Thank you, sir!" Stiles said, unable to contain his excitement. 

"I make no promises, though," Brendan said. "You might not step foot on that pitch tomorrow." 

"I understand," Stiles said because he did. There were six subs on the bench, and only three of them could be used. He was willing to wait for his chance. 

Chelsea were just above Liverpool on the table, with only one point difference between them. This late in the season, every single point mattered. Liverpool needed to win if they were to have a chance at third place in the League. They had been neck and neck with Chelsea for the last few weeks, and that got on Stiles' nerves. He didn't want Chelsea to beat them on the table. Jackson was starting, which raised Stiles' hackles as well. Daniel Agger was wearing the armband, being vice-captain, because Steven took a knock against Norwich the weekend before, and that alone took some of the edge out of Liverpool's side. Jordan Henderson was in Stevie's usual spot in midfield, and had a lot of responsibility to share with Joe Allen as they attempted to get balls to Daniel Sturridge and Luis Suarez. 

It didn't take long to breach the Chelsea defense. Luis Suarez managed to score before the end of the half. Directly after the whistle in the second, though, Chelsea answered Liverpool's goal with one of their own, equalizing. The game was still at a draw when Stiles was subbed on at the 76th minute to an applause from the crowd. He tried not to think about how much they cheered for him as he stood on the sidelines to go on. As he jogged onto the pitch, the crowd burst into a resounding rendition of his chant. It made him smile, knowing that they were that ecstatic that he was on the field. He didn't get a chance to score, but to be on the field against Chelsea felt good, and Stiles was relieved that his injury was behind him. 

The match ended with a draw, with was disappointing this close to the end of the season. 

Stiles trained hard leading up to the match against Crystal Palace, that was going to be away. Once again, though, he didn't end up on the Starting XI. He got to go on in the second half, replacing Daniel Sturridge only sixty minutes in. When Stiles scored, the entire team ran over to celebrate with him. He was back, and as he walked by a camera he didn't think before he blew a kiss at it. Players did it sometimes, but he never had. He didn't think about it until he got home and watched the Match of the Day, where it showed his goal, along with the kiss.

Liverpool went home with three points, so they were able to keep their third place position on the table. With only one match left of the season, Stiles began to worry that he wouldn't get that starting position that he needed in order to make the England squad for the summer. He was sure that Roy saw his goal against Crystal Palace, but he didn't think that would be enough to score him that spot in the squad that he needed. 

When the time came to announce the starting eleven for the closing match against Newcastle United, at home, Stiles was a nervous wreck. Derek would be traveling to Southhampton for his final match, where Manchester United were solidly in fifth place. Liverpool could end up in either third or fourth place, depending on the outcome of their last match, along with Chelsea's result. Arsenal secured their first place position the week before, leaving enough of a gap between them and second that no one would be able to catch up to them. It had been years since the table had been so close, usually with a wide gap between the second and third places. Liverpool fought hard for their Champions League position, and Stiles would be lying if he told himself he cared where they were on the table. All that mattered to him were that they got Champions League, and that Liverpool was on top of United in the standings. 

That, and he cared about starting in the game about Newcastle - which he was. Steven was, also, fit to play as well, giving Liverpool a good starting XI for their last match of the season. Stiles and Stevie kicked off the match, and started the play off with a bang as Stiles managed a shot on goal and got Liverpool a corner kick right out. 

The result of the corner kick was a header goal by Martin Skrtel. The match went by faster than Stiles wanted it to, since it was the last match with Liverpool until August. Stiles needed one more goal, he wanted it so that he could show Roy that he would do well in the Cup. Every shot he made, though, the Newcastle goalie blocked. He got frustrated and as the second half went underway, he tried to tell himself that all he really needed was for Liverpool to win, that he needed to not be so selfish. He got the corner that lead to Skrtel's goal, and that should be enough for him. Liverpool's backline were impenetrable by Newcastle, and the match ended with only one minute of stoppage time, 1-0. 

Elated, Stiles joined his teammates in celebrating on the pitch. They were officially going to the Champions League next season, for the first time in years. Afterwards, he made his way down the tunnel to shower quickly. Every year on the last home match of the season, the Liverpool players and their children all took a walk around the pitch to give thanks to all the fans for a year of support. Stiles put on his Liverpool suit, and joined his teammates who all gathered by the side of the pitch before they all started walking around. 

Around him were all of his teammate's children, running around or held in their arms. Stevie had three girls, and Lucas had two children of his own. Stiles liked seeing all of them, and even though he had no one to walk with, he knew his father was in the crowd, clapping for him as he walked around with the other footballers who weren't married and didn't have children. They took a lap around the pitch, all the while clapping for the fans, thanking them for an amazing season. 

Once that was done, Stiles headed for his car. When he got in, he saw that he had a voicemail from Derek. 

"Congrats on the win and making Champions League. Give me a call later."

Stiles knew it took a lot for Derek to say that, considering United's standing on the table. Fifth place meant that they would go on to qualify for Champions League, that they were right on the cusp and had to basically play a mini-tournament in order to get in. Stiles had to give Derek props, because if their positions were reversed, he wasn't sure he'd have been able to sound as genuine as Derek had. 

Since Derek was in Southhampton, Stiles went home. He had originally wanted to go to Manchester, but Southhampton was almost four hours away and Derek wouldn't be in until late. He ended up watching Sky Sports, which was busy talking about the days matches and the final standings. Stiles ended up falling asleep on his couch, waking up to the sound of knocking at his door. He sat up, looking at the time; it was 3am. 

Stiles knew it was Derek, so he scrambled off the couch to answer the door. Derek looked dead on his feet, but had a smile on his face nonetheless. 

"You're here," Stiles said, relieved. 

"So tired," Derek mumbled as he rest his head on Stiles' shoulder. "Drove straight here after I got off the bus from Southhampton."

"Jesus, you could have came down in the morning," Stiles said as he lead Derek towards his bedroom. 

"Wanted to sleep with you," Derek said as he yawned. It made Stiles' heart melt a little, because that was what he wanted, too. He crawled in bed, Derek following him after he stripped down to his briefs. They got comfortable, glad to be so close to one another. 

Stiles woke up to the sound of his phone going off. Derek was asleep beside him, still, so Stiles quickly ran into the living room, where his phone was on the coffee table. With his eyes bleary from sleep, Stiles rubbed at them as he answered, his voice gruff.

"Hello?" He asked as he walked up to his bedroom door, closing it so he wouldn't wake Derek. 

"Stiles? This is Roy." Stiles was awake at the sound of the England Manager's voice. He cleared his voice before he spoke again. 

"Good morning, sir," Stiles said into the receiver. "I wasn't expecting you to call."

"Well, I knew you'd want to hear from me sooner rather than later about the World Cup," Roy began to say. "I want you to know that it hasn't gone unnoticed that you worked hard to get where you are."

"Thank you," Stiles said, his stomach in knots. 

"In the next month, I want you to continue training and going to physiotherapy so you can reach full fitness." Stiles nodded even though Roy couldn't see him. "Then, when we begin training in London, I will assess you."

"Are you saying I'm not going to the Cup?" Stiles asked. "I was cleared to play, I'm fit-"

"I'm saying that I will be keeping in touch with the physios at Melwood, and that you only played one match. I think you were pushing yourself a bit too hard, and I don't want you injured during the World Cup." Stiles wanted to snap back that he was fine, but his sore legs were screaming at him, which told himself that Roy was right. He had pushed himself because he wanted to go to the World Cup. 

"I will train, I don't want to miss this," Stiles promised. 

"As long as nothing happens between now and then, you will be going to Brazil." 

When Stiles got off the phone, Stiles felt like the news was bittersweet. He would be going to the World Cup, but he would have to prove himself all over again that he was ready to start. He may not get any playing time at the Cup if Roy didn't believe him to be fit enough. Stiles made his way back into his bedroom, where Derek lay awake, waiting for him. 

"Bad news?" Derek asked, worried. Stiles shook his head as he got back beneath the covers. 

"Not really," Stiles told him. "I am going to London, but that doesn't mean I am going to Brazil. I have to show that I am match fit." 

"You've got time," Derek said as his thumb brushed across Stiles' lips. Stiles closed his eyes at the touch, wishing that for once something could be easy. Nothing was ever easy, though. He had to fight for his spot once more. "You're going to Brazil. Don't doubt yourself now."

Stiles smiled at Derek, knowing that with Derek by his side, he could do anything. He would be going to the World Cup and no one could stop him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally to the World Cup! Ahhhhhhh!

Mornings at Melwood with Deaton were the norm for Stiles. He ran, he lifted weights, he did training exercises, then he ran some more. He had been running ten miles a day for a good two weeks and was feeling good about being match fit when Roy came to visit him while he trained. Roy, being a former Liverpool manager, knew his way around the Melwood gym. 

Stiles was dripping with sweat on the treadmill when Roy appeared in the room, talking with Deaton. He wanted to stop running, to be able to hear them, but Deaton hadn’t told him to. Around Stiles’ chest was a monitor that was calculating Stiles’ vitals as he worked out. Whenever someone was injured they wore the weird vest-type of apparatus, and Stiles wasn’t any different. It was black, and crossed over his chest and back restrictively. He had his training kit shorts on, but no shirt as he ran. His shirt was discarded, thrown to the side around mile seven. 

Deaton walked forwardwith a smile on his face, with Roy following him.

“Why don’t you cool down now,” Deaton suggested. Stiles immediately hit the cool down button, reeling back his miles per hour from nine to seven, then steadily downward until he was walking briskly with his hands on his hips. 

When he finally stopped and got off the treadmill, Deaton handed him a towel to dry off with, along with a water bottle. Stiles, his chest heaving, took it graciously. 

“How are you feeling?” Roy asked as Stiles got a mouthful of water. He nodded his head, his eyes closing as he downed the water, only to pour more into his mouth. “Any pain in your leg?”

“No,” Stiles said between a breath of air. “Not for a while.” Roy smiled at him, and Stiles wanted to collapse then and there. He pushed himself today, doing twelve miles instead of ten. He had reason to, but he wasn’t going to think about it with Roy standing before him, not after the Jackson incident. 

It felt like the distant past now, it being two weeks before England were set to leave for Brazil. Stiles wanted to go, wanted to play for his country even if that meant playing underneath a manager who didn’t respect his sexuality. Stiles pulled on his shirt, then followed Deaton and Roy towards Brendan’s office. Its door was open. Stiles gulped. 

He hadn’t realized the talk would be today. It was now or never, he supposed. It had been a long time coming, and Stiles felt as though his hard work was about to pay off. He hadn’t had any bumps or issues with his recovery, and he didn’t see any reason to be kept from being called up. 

“Sit down, Stiles,” Brendan said from where he was seated. “We’ve got some things we want to discuss with you.” Stiles sat, then wiped his brow with his towel once more. He felt disgusting, needed a shower, and he was pretty sure he smelled. Deaton stood behind him while Roy sat in the chair next to his. 

“First off, we wanted to talk to you about the incident with Jackson Whittemore,” Brendan brought up. Stiles shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He hadn’t talked to Brendan about it, didn’t know he even knew about it. He looked to Roy, who was watching Stiles fidget with his hands, which were in his lap. 

“Okay,” Stiles said with pursed lips.

“We want to be upfront with you,” Brendan said as he put his hands on his desk, folded neatly. Stiles watched them instead of looking Brendan in the eye, his heart rate skyrocketing. “You are a good player, Stiles, but this sport isn’t kind to people like-”

“You,” Roy said, cutting Brendan off. Stiles’ eyes narrowed as he glanced at Roy. He bit his lip to keep from saying something snide. He wanted to go to the World Cup, he wanted to play for England. Brendan got Stiles’ attention by sighing. 

“Yes, now, Stiles, I understand why you haven’t told, and honestly Roy telling me what happened, I felt bad that you didn’t think you could come to me about this.”

“It’s personal, sir,” Stiles said, his voice quiet. “I’d rather not discuss this here-”

“I think quite the opposite,” Roy said indignantly. “We need to know what needs to be done about your rooming for the Cup.” Stiles’ eyebrows lifted, his jaw dropping as he looked between the two of them. “I need to know if anyone else has said anything to you about... anything.” 

“So - so I am going to the Cup?” Stiles asked. He needed to be told right out. 

“You are,” Brendan said with a smile. “Roy and I discussed you for quite some time. England needs you against the likes of Italy and Uruguay.” Stiles beamed, feeling better about himself, despite how Roy was looking at him. “We just want to make sure that there isn’t another bout of... homophobia again while in Brazil.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, looking to Roy. “Well, not having Jackson room with me is a start.”

“Who would you like to room with?” Roy asked. “Who do you feel as though wouldn’t care about you being gay?” Stiles winced at Roy’s wording. It was harsh, and his tone told Stiles what he needed to know: Roy didn’t like him because of it. He had to make sure he didn’t out Derek in this but still attempt to room with him. 

“Well, Stevie knows,” Stiles pointed out, chancing a glance at Brendan. “Kels knows, and Derek Hale knows.” Roy was writing the names down, and Stiles wasn’t sure who else to include. “Jack Wilshere is a top lad,” Stiles said as he bit his nail. “Andy Carroll? I don’t know, sir, I’m sorry. Only Stevie, Kelly, and Derek know.” 

“That’s fine, Stiles, that’s good,” Brendan encouraged him. That should be enough, right, Roy?”

“I’ll make sure that Erica has all these names,” Roy assured them. “Now I want to talk about your behavior.”

“My behavior?” Stiles asked, confused. “I didn’t-”

“I don’t want this to become an issue,” Roy stated. Stiles shut his mouth because he didn’t want to cause more problems than he supposedly already had. “Keep to yourself and you’ll get to play.” Stiles felt like that was a threat, but he didn’t do anything about it, only nodded. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good,” Roy said, standing. “I will see you in London then.” He reached out to shake Stiles’ hand. Stiles took it, standing himself. He was going to Brazil, but he knew that Roy wasn’t going to be easy on him. As Roy walked out, Brendan cleared his throat. Deaton closed the door behind Roy, and Stiles sat back down. 

“I wanted to talk to you about this summer,” Brendan said casually. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, feeling like he was about to get a talking to. 

“I don’t want to keep things from you, Stiles,” Brendan said easily. “I want you to be in the know about what is going on.”

“Going on, sir?” Stiles asked. 

“The club has been approached by a few others in regards to buying you.” Stiles stomach sank. He didn’t want to leave, he wanted to remain at Liverpool. He wanted to be like Stevie and Jamie Carragher - a one team man. Stiles opened his mouth to talk, when Brendan put his hand up. “Now, I’m not keen on selling you, but if you want to leave-”

“Don’t sell me,” Stiles said quickly. “Don’t break my contract, I want to stay.” 

“Don’t you want to know who wants you?” Brendan asked. 

“No,” Stiles said with the shake of his head. During the summer, it was transfer season. Players would be leaving clubs, going to others, being sold and bought and loaned out. Stiles hadn’t been worried until now. “I don’t want to know. I know where I belong, and that’s at Anfield.” Brendan smiled at Stiles genuinely. “There is no other club I’d rather play for.” 

“Good to hear that, son,” Brendan said, standing up and coming around the table to give Stiles a hug. “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do, you hear me?” Brendan said into Stiles’ ear. “You’re a top player; remind Roy why he needs you on his team.”

“I will, sir,” Stiles said, his chest swelling with pride as their embrace ended. He felt relieved that Brendan didn’t hold it against him that he liked the same sex. 

After Stiles showered and changed clothes, he drove up to Manchester. He did it almost every day, spending the night in Manchester as well before driving back in the morning. Scott had gone home to Mexico to visit his family before heading off to be with his own national team, so Stiles didn’t have many friends around. He went to his dad’s some nights but had been spending most of his free time with Derek. 

Stiles called his dad on the way to Manchester, relaying the good news about him being on the team. He left out the homophobic undercurrent of the conversation, though, and was saving that for Derek. Stiles was keyed up by the time he pulled into Derek’s driveway. When he walked in without knocking, he was surprised to see not Derek, but his two sisters instead. Stiles stopped dead in his tracks.

He hadn’t come in contact with Cora at all, except the once, and had never met Laura but there was no mistaking who she was. Derek was nowhere to be seen, but his car was parked outside. 

“Uh-” 

“You look like a deer in the headlights,” Laura said, her voice light. Cora, though, eyed Stiles warily. Stiles gulped and shut the door behind him. “Der is getting the oil changed in Cora’s car. He’ll be home soon.” That explained why Derek’s car was there, but he wasn’t. Stiles should have called ahead, but Derek hadn’t mentioned anything that morning when he left. Stiles hung his keys up on his hook, next to Derek’s pair, and slipped off his shoes, adding them to his and Derek’s pile. Derek’s sisters watched him silently, and when Stiles looked up at them, Laura was smirking and Cora had her arms crossed. 

“So, Stiles, Derek tell you much about us?” Laura asked as she leaned against the counter. 

“Um, bits and pieces,” Stiles said as he made his way into the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water. Really, he was doing it to show them that he knew where things were, that he had a place in Derek’s house now -- in his heart. “I know you live in Liverpool.”

“We should get lunch some time,” Laura said as she watched Stiles drink his water. 

“Sounds great,” Stiles said as he then put the glass into the dishwasher, which was almost full. He had Cora scoot over so he could get to the sink and grab a detergent to put in with the dishwasher before he ran it. “Let me know when you’re free,” Stiles said when he was done. He looked to Cora. “Are you guys staying for dinner?” He asked. “I’m grilling out.” 

“No,” Laura said, looking to Cora. “I’ve got a late shift at the hospital tonight, and Cora’s heading to London as soon as Derek is back.” 

“Ah, next time then,” Stiles said as nonchalantly as possible. They all stood there in silence, until Cora broke it. 

“So, what, are you living here?” she asked. Laura gave Cora a look, which she brushed off with a roll of her eyes. “What? Do you go over and start your boyfriend’s dishwasher?” 

“I was here last night, I did the dishes, so I just-” Stiles started to say, but stopped. “I’ve been staying here a bit, yeah.”

“Do you know what happened the last time he lived with his significant other?” Cora asked, but Laura shushed her. Stiles didn’t know, but then again, he and Derek weren’t really living together. A couple of pairs of shoes and a place to hang his keys didn’t mean he was living with Derek. 

“No-”

“No, you don’t, so stop pretending that he loves you.” Stiles tried not to let Cora’s words get to him, but after his meeting with Roy, his nerves were already shot. Stiles turned towards Laura, his mouth turned downwards in a frown. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs.” Without another word, Stiles went upstairs into the bathroom that was attached to Derek’s bedroom. He turned on the water, splashing it on his face. Stiles felt his heartbeat in his ears as he stared at himself in the mirror. He concentrated on his breathing, but it was hard, coming in short bursts as he played Cora’s words over and over in his mind: _Stop pretending he loves you_. 

They hadn’t said the words, ever, but Stiles never thought twice about it. He hadn’t felt like he needed to, that it was something that they’d get to eventually, naturally. Now he felt like it was the elephant in the room, looming over him, suffocating him. 

Stiles tugged at his shirt as he slid down to the floor. He shut his eyes as he tried not to think about Roy’s tone, how he looked at him. Cora’s dislike of him hit Stiles like a Mack truck. He gasped for breath, not hearing the footsteps of someone entering the bathroom. 

“Jesus Christ, Stiles, are you alright?” Derek asked as he kneeled beside him. “What’s wrong?” Stiles opened his eyes, seeing Derek’s look of concern. 

“Panic attack,” Stiles managed to say. He hadn’t had one in a long, long time. His chest hurt, and he could tell that if he stood up he would be nauseous. He reached a hand out, and Derek took it, linking their fingers together. 

“What do you need me to do?” Derek asked. 

“Just stay,” Stiles said as he breathed in and out, his head resting on the wall behind him. Derek sat next to him, putting an arm around Stiles, pulling him closer. Stiles hiccoughed as he tried to talk, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to smile. “I’m going to Brazil,” he said as tears welled up in his eyes, finally. He felt like he had been holding them in unintentionally. Derek gave him a sad smile as he reached over, wiping at Stiles’ face with his thumbs. 

“I’m so fucking glad you did it,” Derek said as he pressed his forehead against Stiles’. “I didn’t want to go without you.” Stiles held his breath, because he was pretty sure if he breathed, he’d cry harder because of Cora’s words. “What’s wrong?” Derek asked as he raked his fingers through his hair. 

“Cora,” Stiles said as he buried his face against Derek’s shoulder. With Derek’s arms wrapped around him, Stiles sat practically in Derek’s lap. 

“They left,” Derek said as his hand smoothed down Stiles’ back. “What happened?”

“It’s stupid,” Stiles said, knowing that if he said it out loud, it wouldn’t sound like it should have this effect on him. When Derek didn’t force it out of him, Stiles sighed, his eyes closing as he wiped at his face. It was embarrassing, having a panic attack over a comment. “She told me to stop pretending-” 

He didn’t want to say the rest. Derek stiffened as his hand held onto Stiles’ chin, forcing him to look at Derek. 

“Pretend what?” Derek asked, his voice serious. 

“That you love me,” Stiles whispered. Derek’s lips were on his before he had time to think. He melted against Derek’s body, his hands on Derek’s shirt as he straddled him, kissing him desperately. 

“I do,” Derek said against Stiles’ lips. “Don’t let her fuck with you.”

“You what?” Stiles asked, his eyes wide as he retracted enough away from Derek to look in his eyes, his hands cupping Derek’s face. He wanted to hear the words, needed to know if Derek felt the same way about him as he felt towards Derek. 

“I love you,” Derek said without a hitch. Stiles smiled against Derek’s lips as they kissed on the bathroom floor. “I didn’t think about how you’d get here without me being here.”

“Usually it isn’t a big deal,” Stiles said as Derek’s mouth moved down his neck, sucking on the skin at the base of it, where it became his shoulder. “It wouldn’t have been, if not for fucking Roy-”

“What’d Roy do?” Derek asked as he sat up straight, his lips leaving Stiles’ skin. Stiles shook his head as he pushed those thoughts from his mind. He wanted to kiss Derek, wanted to feel Derek push him against a mattress and fuck him so he couldn’t think anymore. “Stiles...”

Stiles sighed outwardly as he ran his fingers through his own hair. 

“He sat me down with Brendan and Deaton, and basically said that he doesn’t like that I’m gay, but I’m too good not to go to the Cup and fuck, Derek, he doesn’t want me on his side because of Jackson’s fucking mouth and I had to give them a list of people to room with who would be ‘okay’ with me. Do you know how demeaning that fucking is? Basically, if I so much as look at Jackson badly, I am not playing this summer,” Stiles said with a huff. “And I just fucking can’t stand it.” 

“Roy is a fucking nutter,” Derek said, kissing Stiles’ temple. “But he’s right that England needs you. He’d be an idiot to keep you out of the squad.” 

“He wants me out, though, he doesn’t want me on his team.”

“And Brendan? I didn’t know he knew-”

“Roy fucking went to him,” Stiles said as he rested his forehead against Derek’s shoulder as he sat there straddling him with his knees pressed against the cool tiled floor. “Brendan didn’t seem to care, though.” 

“Good,” Derek said with a sigh of his own. “You deserve a manager who gives a shit about you as a person.” 

“I gave them your name, but last so they wouldn’t think that you’re gay, I didn’t out you-”

“I wouldn’t care if you did, Stiles,” Derek said. “I’d be right there with you. I’m not going to hide if you are pushed out. God, I could fucking punch Jackson right now.” Stiles clung tight to Derek, not believing Derek’s words, that he would come out with Stiles if Jackson told the press. 

“I love you, too,” Stiles said, his stomach clenching at the admission. “You know that, right?” Derek’s smile was genuine as he cupped Stiles’ face, kissing him. 

“I know,” Derek whispered against his lips. Stiles, elated that he had Derek, all of him. “Are you okay, though?” Derek asked, his fingers carding affectionately through Stiles’ hair. “About Roy-”

“Fine,” Stiles said as he licked his lips, his fingers fumbling at Derek’s shirt. “I get to go to Brazil with you, I’ll get to play. He basically said he had to bring me if England has a chance.”

“Well at least he doesn’t have his fucking head up his ass,” Derek grumbled as he let Stiles undress him. “He’s got my blood boiling.”

“I’d rather it be me doing that,” Stiles said smugly. Derek laughed, which made blood rush straight to Stiles’ crotch. Derek’s laugh was contagious, and had Stiles smiling as he cupped Derek’s groin through his jeans. “Fuck me.” 

“You sure?” Derek asked, concerned. “After you just had a panic attack?” Stiles growled, undoing the top button of his own pants. “Stiles-”

“Yeah, sure, I want you to, right here,” Stiles said as he threw his shirt into a pile with Derek’s. He scooted off of Derek and rid himself of his jeans and briefs, watching as Derek did the same. Stiles got the lube and a condom, holding the condom between his teeth as he walked back over to Derek, who was already stroking himself into hardness. Stiles leaned in, giving Derek the condom by making Derek take it with his own teeth. After he did, Stiles beamed at him. 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Stiles asked as he twisted open the lube, going to his knees in front of Derek. Stiles slipped a lubed finger inside himself as he licked up Derek’s shaft, mouthing at it, playing as he opened himself up. Derek watched, then set off, ripping the condom package open. Stiles’ mouth made way for the condom as he pushed a second finger in, crooking his fingers, making himself moan as Derek rolled on the condom. “Come down here.”

Derek did, his hands gripping tight to Stiles’ waist as their mouths crashed together. Derek wrapped an arm around Stiles, a finger slipping between the two Stiles already had inside of him, pressing inward. Stiles moaned against Derek’s mouth, his hips bucking forward at the intrusion, at the stretch. Derek swallowed Stiles’ noises as he fucked him with his finger, Stiles’ legs spreading more with each thrust. 

“You drive me crazy,” Derek said against Stiles’ lips. Stiles whimpered as he began pressing a second finger in. Stiles panted opened-mouthed, his head rolling back as Derek bit at his neck, marking him. Their cocks were rubbing against each other, making Stiles want more friction. Stiles made the move, turning around and bending over so he was facing away from Derek. 

With the loss of both his own fingers and Derek’s, he felt empty, but he knew the feeling wouldn’t last long as Derek grabbed hold of his hips, pulling him back towards him. Derek slicked himself up more before he started fucking Stiles, his hand sliding up and down Stiles’ back, nails raking across his skin, making Stiles’ head drop down between his shoulders. 

Stiles had one hand out before him, while the other was jacking himself off in time to Derek’s thrusts. Stiles shut his eyes as he felt Derek fill him over and over, his hips rolling against Stiles’ ass, Derek’s hand stilling at the top of Stiles’ ass as he fucked him. Stiles arched his back as Derek’s even pace changed, his breathing heavy. Stiles leaned forward so his head could rest on the back of his hand as Derek fucked him into the ground until he stilled over him, his fingers leaving bruises on Stiles’ waist from holding onto him. Stiles sighed, contented, as Derek pulled out of him. He hadn’t come yet, but he knew Derek wouldn’t leave him there. 

Derek’s fingers replaced his cock as he kissed up Stiles’ spine, his tongue laving at Stiles’ back as he fucked Stiles with two fingers, hitting his prostate repeatedly. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Stiles shouted as he slid forward a couple of inches, his legs shaking at Derek’s unrelenting hand. Stiles came onto his own hand and the bathroom floor as Derek continued thrusting his fingers inside of Stiles, crooking them and making Stiles pant until he shook his head from overstimulation. 

“Shit,” he said afterward when Derek wiped him down with a washcloth, his legs feeling like rubber and his limbs heavy. He couldn’t get enough of Derek, wanted more, needed him. It scared Stiles, but he couldn’t think as Derek pulled him into bed, kissing him until they fell asleep. 

London came faster than Stiles thought it would. He assumed it would take ages to get there, sort of like how the holidays always dragged on during the days leading up to Christmas, but somehow London snuck up on him. He blamed Derek. Derek was a welcome distraction. Stiles and he switched off on days they visited, rarely spending the night alone. 

In a way, Stiles was dreading London because that meant he and Derek would have to go back to pretending they weren’t together. That thought alone made Stiles wish he could just come out and be who he really was, but he wasn’t ready to be defined by his sexuality.

He spent the night before going to London with his dad, since he wouldn’t see him until he got back. Stiles told him that he could fly him to Brazil, but he refused to go, wanting to stay in England and watch it on the TV with his friends down at the pub he frequented. Stiles didn’t want to deny his dad that, having watched every World Cup there since before he was married. 

When he got to London, Stiles found out he would be rooming with Jack Wilshere. The first thing he did was text Derek to see who he got, along with his room number. They’d be in London for a few days training before flying to Manaus, Brazil, where their first match would be.

The World Cup had thirty-two countries playing in it. The first round had them all broken down into groups of four. The two teams from each group with the most points after three matches got to move on to the next round. Stiles knew that England were going to have a difficult time making it out of the group round, what with them being in a group with Uruguay, Italy, and Costa Rica. 

The first match of the World Cup was Brazil against Croatia in Sao Paulo. There were twelve host cities where matches would be held, and the England National team weren’t even landing in Brazil until the opening day of the tournament, due to the fact that their first match wasn’t until four days after the opening ceremony. 

Stiles didn’t hear from Derek before dinner and found himself sitting far from him at the massive table. He was seated between Theo Walcott and Danny Welbeck, with Leighton Baines seated across from him. Stiles thought it was some sort of cosmic joke: What do you when you put a Gunner, Manc, Scouser, and a Toffee together? The world would probably end, actually. The only thing missing was a Chelsea player, which Stiles found himself smiling about because Jackson was nowhere near him. 

After dinner, he caught Derek’s eye, motioning with his head slightly before heading towards the elevators. He stood there, waiting for the elevator doors to open with his hands in his pockets, not at all surprised to find Derek come into view. 

“Have a good dinner?” Derek asked simply. Stiles gave him a look, then walked into the elevator. As soon as Derek walked into it, he forced the doors closed with the push of a button. When the door was closed, Stiles felt Derek’s arms wrap around him, his nose nuzzling against Stiles’ neck. 

“Dinner was quiet,” Stiles said, amusing himself enough that he laughed lightly. “Why didn’t you answer my text?” 

“My roommate is Jackson,” Derek said as his hand slid down Stiles’ stomach to his groin. Stiles was still holding the close button as he spread his legs and he leaned into back against Derek’s chest. “Didn’t want to bring attention to anything.”

“That dickbag,” Stiles hissed as Derek’s teeth grazed across his throat. “What floor?”

“Ten,” Derek said as he palmed at Stiles’ growing erection, rubbing against the fabric. 

“You want me to come in my pants, asshole?” Stiles asked as he pushed the button to the tenth floor. “How long do you think he’ll be down at dinner?”

“Why? Want to fuck on his bed?” Derek said with a smirk and a waggle of his eyebrows. Stiles laughed as he leaned his head back against Derek’s shoulder. 

“No, I don’t,” Stiles said as he grabbed Derek’s wrist, taking his hand off of him. “I don’t want to get caught before we go to Brazil.”

“So you want to get caught in Brazil?” Derek asked as he kissed behind Stiles’ ear. Stiles rolled his eyes as he turned towards Derek and cupped his face, pushing Derek up against the elevator wall, capturing his lips with his own. “Or here, maybe.”

“No getting caught,” Stiles said as he raked his fingers through Derek’s hair, tugging it until it looked disheveled. The elevator dinged, telling Stiles they arrived at his floor. Stiles kissed Derek on the lips then stepped away from him. “I’ll see you at training in the morning.”

“Think of me when you jack off,” Derek said as he smoothed down his hair. Stiles gave him a small lift of an eyebrow before he turned down the hall, letting the elevators close behind him. 

It was going to be a long month, and Stiles wondered if they would survive the distance. 

Training was intense, and was Stiles' first time playing with a full team since March. Each night, he took a long shower, sitting in the hotel's tub as he let the hot water hit his back, his knees brought up against his chest as he thought about the World Cup, how much it would mean to not only him, but to his country if he helped bring home the cup. 

He didn't tell Derek about his insecurities, about how he felt like he would let Roy down and prove to be no help. There wasn't any point, because Derek would just run his fingers through Stiles' hair and tell him that it was all in his head. Stiles knew that he was psyching himself out, but a month was a long time to be away from home. He didn't want to think about how far he would be from his father, leaving the country for the first time in his life. He had never even been on an airplane, and now he was about to fly for over eight hours. 

Thankfully, Derek was sitting next to him on the flight. They got to choose where they sat and they were seated in first class with comfortable chairs and privacy. Stiles was watching _Breaking Bad_ , having finished _Lost_ , and he took a nap for a good three hours somewhere in the middle. 

He wanted to reach across their seats and hold Derek's hand, but he couldn't. Stiles was lying down, watching Derek watch something on his own computer, when he tapped Derek's leg, his index and thumb pinching the fabric of Derek's NT tracksuit pants. Derek's fingers brushed over Stiles' as he removed his headphones with his other hand. 

"What's up?" He asked, his voice low so he wouldn't bother the other players, most of whom were sleeping. 

"I love you," Stiles mouthed to him, not speaking it aloud. Derek smiled at him, his fingers clasping around Stiles' for just a moment. 

"Me too," he said before he went back to watching his movie. 

When they landed in Manaus, the crowd of people waiting for them was astounding. A mass of people surrounded their gate as they walked off, with Stiles carrying his pillow and carry-on bag. He walked behind Derek, his head foggy from sleep and the time change. It was late in England, four hours ahead of where they were now. All he wanted was to fall asleep. On the bus, Stiles could hear Brazilians screaming as they drove away. He rested his head on Derek's shoulder, falling asleep without meaning to. When he was shaken awake by Derek, Stiles forgot where they were, almost kissing Derek's cheek as he sat up. 

He bolted upright when he realized what he had been about to do. Derek had a look in his eye that he knew what had Stiles' heartbeat skyrocketing, his hand smoothing across Stiles' forearm to let him know they were fine as they all stood up to get off the bus. 

"I wish we were rooming together," Stiles mumbled when they got their room assignments. He wanted nothing more than to sleep in bed with Derek. Instead, he was sharing a room with Joe Hart. They were on the same floor, at least, and rode the same elevator up. Stiles fell asleep even though it was early Brazilian time, hugging his pillow tight and wishing it was Derek. 

His internal clock was off, by a lot. He felt sick when Joe practically rolled him out of bed to eat before they were to train. He wasn't alone, though, in feeling a little off. He was caught up on the day before's results: Brazil had won their first match against Croatia in the opening match. It didn't surprise him, but it reminded him that somewhere in Brazil, other teams had already played their first matches, and England's was coming up. 

They weren't told who would be starting, so Stiles could only assume that Roy hadn't decided by the time they made it back to the hotel to shower before taking a tour of the city. Stiles stuck by Derek, not caring if they were seen to be close. Everyone on the team had those whom they hung out with the most, and he and Derek were no different. To others, they would look like Jordan Henderson and Martin Kelly, who were close friends. It was just the glares from Jackson that Stiles worried about, but he made sure to keep clear of him. 

Stiles was amazed at how different Brazil was from England. For one, the sun was intense, and the air smelled unlike England's somehow. He couldn't explain it but it didn't even feel like he was in the same world anymore. The weather, as well, was something that Stiles would have to get used to. It was hotter than England, and the humidity was different. He walked around the city with a water bottle, trying to keep himself hydrated. 

That night at dinner, Roy announced the starting lineup of the match against Italy. Jackson was starting over Stiles, who would start off on the bench. He tried not to let it affect him, but he couldn't help but sit there with clenched fists as Jackson got claps on the back from those around him. Derek leaned over, his shoulder nudging Stiles out of his internal tirade. 

"You're on the bench. He's starting Jackson to see if he can withhold the pressure. If he blows it, you'll come in and save the day."

"Fat chance," Stiles said as he stabbed at his half-eaten plate of food. It was late in England, beyond late, and he just wanted to be in bed. But once he got upstairs, he couldn't so much as shut his eyes without thinking of Jackson and his smug face holding the Golden Boot, the award to the best player of the tournament. Stiles didn't think he slept a wink when his alarm went off. 

The stadium was huge and loud as the British and Italians screamed for their countries. Stiles sat on the bench with his arms crossed as he watched Derek walk out onto the field with their teammates. They listened to the two countries’ anthems, then had a normal coin toss. Gianluigi Buffon, the captain of Italy, shook hands with Steven, and Stiles couldn't help but feel a little pride at the fact that he got to be here, that it was finally happening. He had been too caught up in his own mind to let it sink in that this was the World Cup, and every second counted towards the main goal: to win. 

The referee for their match was Portuguese, so there was a language barrier, but everyone used the same hand signals. Referees were from all over the world as well, and Stiles supposed they didn't need to speak the same language of the teams playing. 

Stiles knew that cards would be flying, that you didn't want to get any because they would last throughout the tournament, but he hadn't realized how intense the match would be from the get go. These weren't friendlies, where it didn't count for anything, or even like qualifiers. This was the biggest match they could possibly play, and Italy was dominating the possession. 

Every time England got the ball, Italy took it back, making England look like they were running around with their heads cut off. Jackson and Daniel Sturridge managed a shot on goal each, but nothing came from them by halftime. Stiles swore when Joe Hart fumbled a save, but Leighton Baines kicked it out of play at the last second before Mario Balotelli could score. The locker room was quiet as Roy expressed his dislike at how England had handled themselves, that they needed to show everyone that they could win. It was still an even playing field, with the score tied at zero. They didn't want to start the tournament with only one point, though. They needed all three. 

The whistle blew, and the second half went underway. 

Possession remained heavily with Italy as time slowly ticked by. By sheer luck, Daniel Sturridge found his opening off of a set piece, the ball fed to him from a corner by Steven Gerrard. Stiles flew to his feet, jumping up and down with the lads around him as the scoreboard read 1-0 to England. 

Five minutes later, Italy equalized. 

Dread filled Stiles as he watched the timer reaching closer and closer to the 90th minute. With fifteen minutes left on the clock, Roy called his name, telling him and Jordan Henderson to go warm up together. Jordan was going to go on for Michael Carrick, whereas Stiles would be hopefully replacing Jackson and not Daniel. Stiles knew as he stood near the sidelines, when the fourth official lifted the board that showed Jackson's number and then Stiles', signifying that he was replacing him. Usually when players replaced one another they slapped hands or let the other know they played a good game. Stiles did no such thing as he ran out onto the pitch. 

He had less than ten minutes to show Roy that he should have started, and that wasn't a lot of time. If the rest of the match was intense, that had nothing on the last seven minutes of play. Stiles could barely keep up with who had the ball. He had the ball fed to him from Stevie, then from Derek in quick succession as the ball went back and forth between the two sides. The Italian defenders meant business and fouled Stiles right outside of the box. 

The free free kick formation they went over in training had Stiles back by the kick, not on the wall where he usually would be in plays like this. He felt like he couldn't do much from this position, but as Steven took the kick, the ball ricocheted off the wall of players. It rebounded back to Stiles who took one step towards the ball and readied to kick it towards the goal without a proper set up; he breathed as he let the ball follow through. He closed his eyes afterward, holding his breath. 

The crowd erupted in screams as Stiles was tackled to the ground by his teammates. Barring added time, England had just won their first match of the tournament. Stiles was brought to his feet by Derek, who had a hand on Stiles' neck as they made their way back to their starting positions. Derek had his forehead pressed against Stiles' as they walked. 

"I'm so fucking proud of you," Derek said before he shoved Stiles away from him. It would go unnoticed to everyone, how much it meant to him that Derek said that because the rest of the team was doing the same to him. 

When play resumed, Stiles was desperate for the ball, as was the rest of his team. He wasn't near the ball as an Italian tackled one of England's players with one minute left of stoppage time, but a fight broke out, with two yellows coming up from the referee. Stiles couldn't see from halfway down the field. He was panting with his hands on his hips, gripping tight to his shirt as he waited for the match to resume again. 

Someone had been on the ground, and Stiles' breath caught in his throat when he saw that it had been Derek. 

"Is he okay?" Stiles asked as he began to go towards them. Derek was limping as he kept his weight off of his left ankle. He got to Ashley Young first, repeating the question. "Ash, is he okay?" 

"Can't tell, but De Rossi got a yellow, so did Motta for starting shit," Ashley said as he spit onto the ground. Stiles looked up at the clock, knowing as soon as the free kick was taken that the whistle would be blown. Derek was walking gingerly towards the bench, knowing it would take a bit to get there. Stiles was right because as soon as Steven took the free kick, the whistle was blown and the match was over. England won their first match, giving them a good headway before their match against Uruguay in a few days time. 

Stiles ran to Derek, putting his arm underneath him to help him off the field. The physios were there within seconds, though, taking Derek from him. Stiles knew he should stay on the field and shake hands with everyone, but all he wanted was to follow Derek down the tunnel. Instead, a camera was shoved into his face, along with a microphone. 

"Stiles, how does it feel to score in the first match?" The interviewer asked him. Stiles held onto his hips, looking around and then at the man. 

"It was incredible," Stiles said taking a deep breath. He was tired from running, and desperately needed water. "I can't believe I got to come on, and that I managed to score off of a rebound like that. It isn't an opportunity you get very often," he said with a shrug. He wanted Derek. 

"What do you think England's chances are? Do you think you'll make it out of your group?" 

"I think we have a pretty good chance, now that we've got one match under our belts," Stiles said, trying to give the camera a smile. He was drenched in sweat and he knew his face was red. "It all depends on what the starting lineup is, and if we can keep injury-free." With that, Stiles walked off, taking a water bottle from an assistant, along with a towel. 

As he walked down the tunnel, he swore he heard his name being chanted in the stands.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating! The Holidays were a lot busier than I had anticipated they would be!
> 
> Reminder that Jackson is a complete asshole in this fic. (like anyone needed reminding though am I right?)
> 
> also, heyyyyy new tag!

Derek’s ankle was sprained thanks to De Rossi. He’d miss the match against Uruguay, the physios told him. Stiles had Derek on the phone, agitated because he couldn’t go see him because Derek was rooming with Jackson. 

“Kick him out so I can come see you,” Stiles grumbled; he had just come back from training. 

“I can’t,” Derek said cryptically. Stiles knew Jackson was in the room, so Derek had to be careful about what he said. 

“Are you coming down to watch the matches?” Stiles asked him. The team got together to watch the Cup, when they could, watching it on a screen in the dining room. The night before they had watched the France vs. Honduras match, as well as Argentina vs. Bosnia-Herzegovina, but Derek hadn’t been present. 

“I don’t think so, no,” Derek said, sounding down. Stiles wished he could comfort him. Getting injured in the first match of the World Cup was like a nightmare coming true. He couldn’t believe it happened to Derek. 

“Jackson will be down here,” Stiles said conversationally. “He stayed for the whole time last night...”

“What are you suggesting?” Derek asked with a hint of amusement behind his tone, knowing exactly where Stiles was going with his train of thought. 

“I could come up there and watch them with you.” There were two great matches that Stiles didn’t want to miss: Germany vs. Portugal, and Ghana vs. USA. There were three matches, with Iran playing Nigeria between the two, but he had other ideas besides watching that match. 

"I'd like that," Derek said with a smile. "I'm coming down for lunch in a bit, Roy said he wants me to show my face since I didn't yesterday."

"I miss your face," Stiles joked. "I'm heading down to eat in a few, too. So I'll see you then."

"Sounds good." 

The dining room was full, but Stiles managed to find a table where Derek could sit with him. The first match, Germany vs. Portugal, was starting in just under an hour. Stiles was glad they had training that morning, so that he could watch some matches. He'd been afraid that he'd miss most of them, what with training and visiting the city. They had walked around all day the day before, their day off, before coming back and watching the matches. 

Derek was on crutches, which reminded Stiles of his own injuries. Derek was lucky it was just a sprain, that he wouldn't be out for the whole Cup. Stiles was worried about the match against Uruguay, though, because they were the team to beat in their group. England needed another win to safely go through to the next round since Costa Rica lost against Uruguay in their first match. 

Once Jackson was downstairs and sitting with his friends from Chelsea, Stiles and Derek headed up to Derek's room. Stiles put the lock over the door, just in case Jackson decided to take a trip upstairs. Derek made himself comfortable on the bed as Stiles turned on the TV. He was still in his England tracksuit, whereas Derek was wearing normal clothes. He hadn't bothered changing to come down to lunch, and Stiles hadn't blamed him. Technically, they were always supposed to be in England garb, but no one had said anything. 

When Stiles crawled into bed with Derek, he sighed contentedly as he got to put his arms around Derek. It had been too long, not since the elevator before the first match that he had gotten to touch Derek, to smell him. Stiles was careful as he draped a leg over Derek's, making sure not to knock Derek's foot. Derek's hand slid up and down Stiles' arm. 

"I've missed you," Derek said. Stiles squeezed him tight as his eyes fell onto the TV. It was a toss up, who Stiles wanted to win the match. Half of him expected a draw, but the other leaned more towards Germany. 

"I want you to be fit," Stiles whispered. "I know you want to be, too, but I don't want to play without you."

"You won't, I'll be good. It barely hurts now, and once we get to Sao Paulo I am going to start physiotherapy. I'll be good to go against Costa Rica."

"You're always so positive," Stiles said as he kissed Derek. "I like that about you."

"One of us needs to be," Derek said as his lips brushed against Stiles'. "Who are you rooting for in this?" Stiles knew Derek was talking about the match on the screen, but all he could think about was Jackson and Roy, and their dislike of him, like they wanted him to fail. With one goal under his belt already, he knew he had a chance to prove that he could play well, even if he liked Derek's cock up his ass. 

"Hmm," Stiles said as his hand trailed casually over Derek's chest. "I'm going to root for Germany," he said. 

"I'll go for Portugal; Ronaldo's going to save them." 

"It takes more than one man to make a team," Stiles mumbled. It was true, because Germany ended up winning the match. Both he and Derek had been so enthralled with the match that neither of them complained when the only time they made out was during halftime. 

As soon as the match was over, Stiles' hand slipped beneath the fabric of Derek's pants. Derek didn't complain as Stiles' fingers wrapped around him, stroking him to hardness as Stiles mouthed at his neck. 

"Careful with marks, don't want people to get suspicious," Derek managed to say as he watched Stiles' hand move. Stiles smirked, then licked at the area he had been working on. His nose bumped against it, his eyes closing as he breathed Derek in. His scent felt like home, a warm blanket wrapped around him that kept him safe. He wished he could drench himself in it, to always have it lingering on his own body. Stiles sat up so Derek could take off his own shirt, let Stiles lick up the side of Derek's chest, his nose nudging gently at Derek's underarm in attempt to get closer, breathe more of him in. With an arm lifted, Stiles moaned at Derek's scent. It made his cock twitch between his legs. 

"I'm going to fuck myself on you," Stiles said as he pressed his thumb over the head of Derek's cock. Derek groaned, his eyes closed, mouth hanging open. Stiles kissed Derek's open mouth, his tongue dipping in momentarily before he pulled away to walk over to Derek's luggage. "Where's your lube?" Stiles asked as he took off his shirt and shoved down his pants. Derek palmed himself as he watched Stiles dig through the suitcase. 

"Little black bag in the corner," Derek said, his voice gruff. Stiles pulled out the bag, his breath catching when he opened it to find not only travel size lube but also a dildo. With a raised eyebrow, Stiles lifted it up to show Derek. 

"What's this for?" Stiles asked, his mind thinking about Derek taking it into the bathroom with him, using it in the shower with Jackson in the other room. It made his balls hang heavy between his legs, wishing he could watch. 

"For me, for you... for us," Derek said as if it wasn't the hottest thing Stiles had ever heard him say. In the bag with the lube and dildo was a bottle of spray sanitizer for the toy, and more than a handful of condoms. Derek came prepared. Stiles brought them over to the bed with him, putting the dildo aside as he straddled Derek. 

"Want to fuck me with it?" Stiles asked as he uncapped the lube, spreading some on his fingers. Derek watched, his pupils blown, as Stiles reached behind himself and pressed a finger inwards. 

"Yeah," Derek said, sounding completely gone at the mere mention of it. He ghosted his own fingers over Stiles' entrance as Stiles fucked himself with two fingers. Derek pressed a finger in with him, but removed it moments later in order to lube up the toy. Stiles removed his fingers, spreading his ass with his hands to make way for it. Derek kissed him as he pushed the dildo inside, fucking him with it slowly. Stiles moved against it, his mouth hanging open as Derek controlled the pace. Stiles rubbed his erection against Derek's, precome smearing between them as the toy filled him. 

"Fuck - fuck me faster," Stiles said against Derek's lips. Derek twisted the toy, making Stiles shout out. Stiles bit down on his own lip to quiet himself. He had to remember that they were in a hotel, that they could be walked in on if they were too loud. Derek shoved the toy into him relentlessly, as he held onto Stiles' back with his other hand. 

"I want to fuck you," Derek rasped, pulling the toy out. Stiles nodded his head as he reached for the condom, ripping it open and rolling it down on Derek’s cock. 

Stiles situated himself over Derek's cock, holding onto the headboard with one hand as the other spread a cheek to the side. Derek guided himself in with a low grunt, his eyes falling closed as Stiles watched. He sunk down on Derek's cock, moaning as it filled him more than the dildo had, his heat making Stiles' eyes flutter closed as he began rolling his hips, Derek's hands holding onto his ass as he moved. Stiles leaned forward, resting his head on Derek's shoulder as he fucked himself on Derek's cock. Stiles slid his hand down Derek's chest, then wrapped a hand around his own cock, taking it just as slow as his hips. 

Stiles whimpered when he felt Derek's fingers against his ass, feeling his cock slide in and out of Stiles. They were wet with lube, slick enough that they could press inward. Stiles' breath hitched as Derek did just what Stiles had been thinking, his index finger sliding in next to his cock. 

"Hnghhm," Stiles said incoherently as he stilled for a moment, pushing back on Derek's cock and finger. "Just like that," Stiles said as he kissed Derek. "Fuck me." 

They both moved in tandem, Derek's finger stretching Stiles even more than he was used to, slowly adding a second along with his cock. Stiles' body was flushed, sweat covered him as he looked around the bed, his eyes falling on the dildo. He'd never tried, never attempted a double penetration, but he wanted to try. He reached for it, adding more lube as Derek retracted his fingers so that he could grip Stiles' hips with both hands. 

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Derek asked as he mouthed against Stiles' collarbone. Stiles nodded, gasping as he pressed the head of the dildo against his opening along with Derek's dick. It was a lot, so fucking much that his thighs shook as it breached him. The stretch burned, and Stiles wondered if maybe they should have used three fingers first, but then Derek moved beneath him, and Stiles felt so fucking full that he couldn't breathe. Derek's hand covered his own, pushing the toy in further until it was fully inside him. Stiles was panting with his mouth hanging open, unable to close it as Derek moved his hips. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles called out as both of his hands went to Derek's neck, holding onto him as Derek kept the toy in place as he slowly thrust in and out. "Shit, I can't - nnghhh"

Stiles didn't know which way was up as Derek pulled at the toy, only to push it back in as he moved. Stiles sobbed as he sought out Derek's lips, kissing him as he pulled himself closer to Derek. Derek stilled within him, his voice choking out in a gasp as he came. He pulled the dildo out and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out sigh at the loss of pressure. His legs were shaking slightly as his lips trembled with the strain. He rocked his hips against Derek's softening cock until Derek hissed, wanting to pull out of him. Stiles continued rocking against him, his own erection rubbing against Derek's stomach as he sought out his own release. He ached all over as his lips brushed across Derek's shoulder, Derek's hand wrapping around his neglected cock. It only took a few strokes before Stiles came, shouting out as his toes curled. He hadn't come that hard in a long time. 

Stiles could barely move as he rolled off of Derek, finding solace in the pillow next to him. He knew he had to clean up, that he didn't want Derek to have to move, but he wanted to ride the high of his climax for a few minutes before he did. Derek's fingers moved up and down Stiles' arm idly, and Stiles couldn't help but close his eyes at the feeling. Totally blissed out, Stiles drifted asleep. He woke up to the feeling of the bed shifting, of Derek getting up. 

"I was going to do it," Stiles mumbled as he felt a warm washcloth between his legs. "I just wanted to wait a moment."

"It's been an hour," Derek said, clearly amused. Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek standing without his crutches. 

"You okay?" Stiles asked as he moved, hissing at how sore his ass was. He was lucky their match wasn't for another two and half days. He didn't want to not be able to run. 

"Better than you," Derek said with a smirk. Stiles swiped an arm at him playfully, smacking Derek's bare bicep with the back of his hand. "Dinner is soon, we should make an appearance." 

"I reek of sex," Stiles said as he stretched out on the bed, his legs spread. Somehow, he was covered with the sheet. He smiled when he realized Derek had done it. The faucet was on, and Stiles realized Derek was cleaning up. He got out of the bed, joining Derek in the bathroom, wrapping his arms around Derek's middle as he cleaned the dildo. "That was-" Stiles didn't even have words for how amazing the sex had been. Derek nodded his approval, that he felt the same way. "I'm going to shower."

"I'll be in in a few," Derek said as Stiles kissed the back of Derek's shoulder. In the shower, Stiles fingered Derek, then blew him. They called housekeeping, asking for clean sheets while they were down at dinner. When they returned just before the USA vs. Ghana match, the room was spotless, with fresh sheets on both the beds and new towels in the bathroom. 

USA drew against Ghana, and Stiles didn't want to go back to his room. Jackson came back to the room just after the whistle blew, his nose turned up at Stiles as he entered. Stiles and Derek were both seated on the bed, but Stiles was sitting cross-legged near the edge of it, whereas Derek was against the headboard with his ankle propped up. 

"What are you doing in here?" Jackson asked as Stiles glared at him. 

"Keeping Derek company," Stiles snapped at him. "Got a problem with that?"

"Yeah, I do," Jackson said as he approached Derek's bed. "Get out of my room, Stilinski."

"Get out of my fucking face, Whittemore," Stiles said as he got up, wincing. Jackson smirked as he grabbed the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles pushed at Jackson's chest, as he maneuvered himself out of the way. "Don't fucking touch me," Stiles hissed as Derek shouted "Hey!" 

Derek was up and out of the bed in seconds, his hand grabbing Jackson's wrist. 

"Get this faggot out of here, Hale," Jackson demanded. "Or I'll call Roy." 

"What the fuck is he going to do?" Stiles asked. "I wasn't doing anything."

"I don't want you so much as breathing near me," Jackson sneered. "Either get on your knees or get out." Stiles' eyes widened at Jackson's words, at the implication. Derek practically growled beside him, pushing Jackson away from Stiles. 

"Stiles, go, it's not worth it." 

Stiles heart clenched in his chest as he made his way towards the door. Without so much as a look back, he left. He hated leaving Derek alone in there with that asshole but didn't know what else he could do. Instead of going to his own room, Stiles went to Steven's. 

He hovered his hand over the door ready to knock, but he stopped himself. Stiles shouldn't have to run to Steven whenever Jackson looked at him wrong. In the end, Stiles went back to his room without telling Steven a thing about it. Jack was there, asked where Stiles had been all day. 

"I was with Derek," Stiles said truthfully. "He was in his room, you know, putting his foot up and shit. We watched the matches there."

"That's nice of you," Jack said genuinely. "If he's not feeling better in Sao Paulo we should get a group of us together and join him. I didn't know, or I would have joined you guys. 

"I'll let him know," Stiles said, even though he had no intention of doing so. That time was his and Derek's. He felt selfish, but he knew that Derek would feel the same way. The sentiment was there, though. Everyone wanted Derek to get better. 

The next morning, they flew to Sao Paulo, where the match against Uruguay would be taking place. Once they were there, they got to the hotel and went to their new rooms; Stiles was sharing with Martin Kelly. He was glad that Roy put him with someone from his list, but he had hoped it would be Derek. The Cup was long, Stiles reminded himself. He and Derek would have to room together at some point or other. Shortly before they were due to leave for training, there was a knock at his door. It surprised Stiles to find Steven standing there as he opened the door, with his hands on his hips. 

"Hi, Stevie," Stiles said, letting his captain in. Steven brushed his hand over his face as he gave Martin a look, then his eyes found Stiles'. Stiles gulped. Steven knew about the confrontation with Jackson. 

"Why didn't you tell me, lad?" Steven asked. Stiles' shoulders dropped. 

"What?" Martin asked, looking concerned. "Did something happen?" Stiles shook his head, not wanting to make it seem like more than it was. 

"Nothing happened," Stiles said. "I was in Derek's room, and-"

"It was Jackson's too," Steven said, his voice getting louder. "That's toeing the line, Stiles. You're supposed to be keeping your head down, yeah?"

"Yeah," Stiles said as he bit his lip. "But he had been watching all the matches down with everyone, so we thought-"

"What if you were in the middle of something?" Steven asked, and Stiles froze. He never told them he was with Derek. With wide eyes, Stiles shook his head back and forth slowly, his chest constricting at the thought of Jackson walking in on them as they were fucking. He couldn't breathe. "What if something had happened?"

"It didn't," Stiles managed to say. "Nothing happened." Except Jackson telling Stiles to get on his knees for him, but he wasn't telling Steven that. "How did you-"

"I'm rooming with Derek," Steven told him. Stiles looked away from the two of them, overwhelmed by the fact that Steven knew that he and Derek were together. "Don't look like you're gonna jump out the fucking window, lad, I've known the whole time."

"Are we that obvious?" Stiles asked, unsettled by the turn of events. Steven's hand was on his shoulder, calming him down. 

"No, lad," Steven assured him. "You've both been smart. Derek told me, way back when. I thought you'd have your heads about you here, though." 

"I'll be more careful," Stiles said, frowning. "I don't want Roy-"

"The only way Roy will know is if we tell him, which I'm not, because I want you playing." Steven looked at Martin, who put a hand on Stiles' other shoulder.

"Won't hear a word from me."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," Steven said, his head tilting a little so he could make eye contact with Stiles. "Derek told me what he said to you.” 

"I'll be fine," Stiles said. "I just want him to leave me alone." 

"He should. I've talked with Frank," Steven said, meaning Frank Lampard who played at Chelsea with Jackson. "He'll make sure Jackson stays away. No more fuck ups like that, though, alright?" Stiles nodded his head, hoping that he could keep that promise. 

After training the next day, the team toured the city. Derek stayed behind, doing physiotherapy. At dinner, as usual, Roy announced the starting eleven. Once more, Stiles’ name wasn’t there. Jackson’s name stood out to Stiles, which made his blood boil even more. Stiles could feel Jackson’s gaze on him, could picture his smirk. The only thing that calmed Stiles down was Derek’s hand in his beneath the table. What was worse was Stiles’ name wasn’t even on the bench.

He wouldn’t be stepping foot on the pitch against Uruguay. 

Stiles was silent throughout dinner and didn’t stay downstairs to watch the match between Cameroon and Croatia. His room was quiet, with Martin watching the match with the others. Stiles didn’t even have the TV on, just lay there in silence until there was a knock at his door. When he answered it, Derek walked into the room, getting in bed with him. They lay there together in the silence, holding tight to each other, not needing to say a thing. 

Watching the match, knowing there was nothing he could do, was painful. England was down two within the first twenty minutes, and Jackson was clearly struggling. Daniel Sturridge managed two shots on goal, and at the half Wayne Rooney replaced him instead of Jackson, like Roy was trying to prove that Jackson was better than Stiles. Stiles didn’t even shout, just sat there with his head in his hands as he watched his team fall apart beneath Uruguay’s pressure. Derek was beside him, and was just as silent. By the time the whistle blew, Uruguay won three to zero, leaving England feeling completely decimated. 

They had five days before they played against Costa Rica, five days before they either moved on to the round of sixteen, or were on a plane back to England. 

They spent two more days in Sao Paulo before they took a bus to Belo Horizonte. This time, Stiles was rooming with Theo Walcott. He wondered if maybe Roy was fucking with him, not rooming him with the list of people that he had asked Stiles for himself. Derek was cleared to play, but was put on the bench along with Stiles for the start of the match against Costa Rica. 

Stiles sat next to him, watching as Jackson fumbled across the field. 

"Why does he keep starting?" Theo asked, who sat on the other side of Stiles as they watched Jackson give away another ball. Stiles sat there with gritted teeth, shaking his head. 

"I don't fucking know," Stiles said, giving Derek a look. He knew exactly why. Roy was forfeiting his chances of getting out of the group stage to show his dislike of Stiles. 

By the half, it was still 0-0. England needed to win, get all three points if they wanted to beat Italy, who currently had four points to England's three. There was no way they'd make it out with an even draw with their goal difference, due to the Uruguay match. As they all stood huddled together in the locker room, Stiles had his arms crossed. Derek stood by him, listening to Roy intently as Stiles couldn't help but glare at Jackson's still-smug face. Once the team was dismissed, Stiles made his way back towards the pitch before he heard Roy call his name. 

Backtracking, Stiles made his way towards Roy, who waited until everyone was out of the room before he talked. 

"I'm going to put you in early on. As soon as the whistle blows I want you and Hale to stretch together. He's a decoy, I'm just sending you on. I want you to score, and I want you to do it fast. We need a morale boost." 

"Yes, sir," Stiles said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. Roy was giving him an impossible task with an even more difficult time constraint. He was making Stiles' life a living hell. Stiles was going to prove to Roy that he could score in that time frame, show him that starting Jackson in the first place had been a bad idea. 

Stiles told Derek what Roy's plan was as they both stretched, did short exercises on the side of the pitch. 

"He's really pissing me off," Derek said, his lips tight so that if any cameras caught them, they couldn't tell what he was saying by reading them. 

"Preaching to the choir," Stiles said as he finished up. He changed into his normal kit, replacing his training one, then walked over to the sidelines, waiting to be let on the pitch when there was a break in play. Stiles looked up, seeing Jackson's number side by side with his. He smiled as he ran onto the field. 

"Wipe that smirk off your face," Jackson said as they ran by each other. 

"Fat chance," Stiles called out over his shoulder. 

Stiles kept one eye on the ball, the other on the clock as the match played on. He got hold of the ball three times, each time getting tackled just outside shooting range. Foiled two more times, Stiles's ten-minute window passed by. He chanced a look to the sidelines to see Roy's look of displeasure. With around twenty minutes left on the clock, there wasn't time to fuck around, not when the roar of the crowd demanded that someone, anyone, score. 

After a free kick by Costa Rica, thanks to a foul by Leighton Baines, Steven managed to intercept the ball. He lobbed it in the air towards Stiles, who got the ball to the ground and passed it back to Steven without blinking. He and Steven ran down the field, and Stiles set himself up to shoot just as Steven passed him the ball one more time. It was that easy, scoring after such a build. 

Stiles felt the wind get knocked out of him as his teammates took him to the ground in celebration. There were still fifteen minutes left on the clock, but if they kept the score how it was now, then England would go on to the round of sixteen. This was cause for celebration. When Stiles got up out of the group pile, he was surprised to see Derek on the sidelines with the fourth official putting Steven's number up, calling him off the field. Stiles frowned, his brow furrowing as Steven handed off his captain's armband before walking off the field, clapping as he did. 

It didn't make sense, tactically, to take Steven off right after he made an assist. Stiles glanced at Roy as he walked back to his starting position. Steven passed by Roy without a word, sitting down on the bench. When the whistle blew, Stiles dashed off down the field. They had possession almost immediately, taking it from Costa Rica. All they had to do was defend, keep the clean sheet. 

Stiles told himself he didn't need a brace, that the goal he had was enough; they were through. 

But he wanted to make sure that Jackson wouldn't start again. 

Stiles shouted for the ball, grabbing Derek's attention. Derek passed him the ball from halfway down the field. Stiles was alone in Costa Rica's half. He knew as he started running towards the ball that it was his. He chested it to the ground and turned his body, blocking a player from taking it from him, and then he took off running with it. Stiles thought about Cristiano Ronaldo's footwork, how beautiful it was. He thought about Messi's ability to weave in and out, how quick he was. He wondered what he looked like as he tried a cheeky back heel, kicking it to Derek who he knew was right behind him. 

He managed the fake out, making the defenders around them turn back just in time for Derek to send him the ball again. Stiles chipped the ball into the back of the net, sending the goalie to the ground as they tried to stop it. With three minutes left on the clock, Stiles scored his brace, solidifying England's place in the first knockout round of the World Cup. He screamed, lifting his arms into the air as Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles' middle and lifted him into the air, spinning him around until they were both enveloped by their fellow teammates. 

The celebration couldn't last long, or they'd be charged with wasting time, but as Stiles made his way to the center line once more, he couldn't help but point over at Roy, letting him know just how he felt about having the pressure of the match put on his shoulders. He could handle it. 

England defended for their lives. Joe Hart stopped three shots on goal, making the last few minutes and stoppage time stressful for both the fans in the stands and the players themselves. When the whistle blew, Stiles ran around the field with Leighton and Derek, screaming and jumping into the air. 

In the locker room, as Stiles showered, he was joined by Jackson. Stiles stiffened immediately, not wanting to cause anything. The showers at this stadium were open, not individual, and Stiles couldn't help but turn his body away from Jackson, showing his ass instead of his dick as he soaped himself up. 

"Did you know you've got bruises, faint ones, on your hips?" Jackson asked casually. Stiles looked down, afraid that it was true. He didn't see anything, but the look on Jackson's face said it didn't matter, that Stiles' reaction said all that he needed to know. "You know, Stilinski, I can see why you'd be a good bottom."

"Shut up, Jackson," Stiles said as he dipped his head under the spray. He decided to ignore him, not egg him on at all in hopes that he would just go away. 

"Who is it? Kelly? Hale? Gerrard?" At the mention of Steven, Stiles shot Jackson a glare. "No wonder he went running to Roy, then. His little lap dog was outed."

"You don't know what you're fucking talking about, so just shut it."

"Don't I?" Jackson asked, raising his eyebrows as he suggestively soaped himself up. "You're the one that can't stop looking at me."

"Fuck off," Stiles said as he turned off the spray and walked away from the shower. He was so done with Jackson's bullshit. 

"What the fuck was that?" Derek asked at his locker. He was already dry and had his clothes on. Stiles clenched his jaw, shaking his head. 

"Stupid fucker," Stiles hissed as he toweled himself off quickly. "Thinks I'm fucking Stevie." Derek snorted, shaking his head slightly. 

"He's about to get what's coming to him," Steven said from behind Stiles wearing his tracksuit bottoms with a towel over his shoulder. "If he thinks he can bully you out of this team by standing next to you in a shower, he's got another fucking thing coming," Steven assured him, then did the unexpected. He put his arm around Stiles and kissed his forehead. Stiles stood there wide-eyed, staring at Derek who was smiling. "Let him fucking talk, lad," Steven said with a wink then walked away. 

Around them, no one so much as blinked an eye at them. Jackson, though, stood where he had been showering, shocked. 

Once back at the hotel, Stiles texted Derek to meet him in a stairwell between their two floors. It didn't take long for Derek to meet him there. 

"Hey," Stiles said, giving Derek a smile as he walked towards Stiles. Having Derek's arms around him again felt right. 

"Hey yourself," Derek said as he gripped Stiles' thighs, hoisting him into the air so Stiles could wrap his legs around his waist. He leaned Stiles against the banister and wall as they kissed. They made out for a while, hands barely roaming over their bodies. Eventually, Stiles ended it by nipping and Derek's bottom lip. 

"So we need to talk-"

"Uh-oh," Derek said as he rubbed his stubbled cheek across Stiles' neck. Stiles laughed as he carded his fingers through Derek's hair, getting him to look into his eyes. “Should I be worried?”

“You don’t look very worried,” Stiles said as he cupped Derek’s face with his hands, his lips brushing against his. Derek let out an amused chuckle that sent all the blood in Stiles’ head straight down to his crotch. 

“Stairwell sex?” Derek asked as he groped Stiles’ ass. As much as he wanted that, he grunted with a headshake. “Then what’s up?”

“About earlier,” Stiles said, swallowing as he rest his head against the wall. “In the locker room-”

“He’s jealous you’ve got three World Cup goals when you haven’t even played a full match,” Derek said honestly as his hands roamed over Stiles’ thighs and lower back. Stiles tightened his legs around Derek’s waist as his own hands played at the hem of Derek’s shirt. “That’s all, empty threats.”

“But Roy-”

“Will play you if he wants England to go through. We’re in the knockouts now, there is no more fucking around.”

“I want to fuck around,” Stiles said with a smirk. It got him a roll of Derek’s eyes and a kiss on the lips. “About Stevie, what he did-”

“He cares about you,” Derek said with a sigh. “He wants you to feel comfortable on the team. He did it to protect you.” Stiles nodded his head. “He’s talked to me, you know, about you. He thinks of you like his own kid brother. He doesn’t want to see you be torn down by the likes of Jackson.” Stiles frowned to keep his emotions in check. “The lads can see that Jackson is giving you shit, and they aren’t going to stand for it. Doesn’t matter why he’s doing it.” Stiles fists clenched in Derek’s shirt as his head fell onto his shoulder. 

“I want to fall asleep next to you,” Stiles complained. “I want to wake up and have you there with me.” 

“I know,” Derek said, his hand resting on the back of Stiles’ neck. “I miss your clinging to me like an octopus-”

“Hey! You like it, don’t deny,” Stiles laughed as he jabbed at Derek’s side. They were silent, then, both thinking about everything going on around them. Stiles thought mostly about the upcoming match against Ivory Coast in four days. 

Eventually, Derek let Stiles down. They kissed one more time, then Derek smoothed down Stiles’ hair from when he raked his fingers through it before they went their separate ways. When Stiles got back into his room, Theo didn’t say a thing about how he had been missing from their room. Instead of thinking about Derek, or Jackson’s douchebaggery, Stiles called Scott to congratulate him on Mexico making it out of the group round. 

They traveled to Rio de Janeiro the next day, and did their normal city tour once they arrived. Stiles didn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he’d rather sit next to Derek, to walk around with him. He was done with the ruse. The only thing they didn’t do was show PDA as they walked the city streets with their teammates. 

After training the next day, the team went to the beach. Stiles was pale, so pale that he had to reapply sunscreen three times in hopes that he wouldn’t burn. 

“Your nose is red and your ears,” Derek said as he got Stiles’s back. Stiles pouted as he sat hunched over, smearing sunscreen over his toes. 

“This is bullshit,” Stiles murmured. “You’re not baking. I want to go in the ocean.”

“In fifteen minutes,” Derek said as he wiped sunscreen over Stiles’ nose affectionately. Stiles rubbed it in, glaring at him. Derek stood up and stretched. Stiles wanted to punch him in the thigh, but he refrained. “I’m going in.”

“Sure, don’t wait for me or anything,” Stiles grumbled but then smiled up at him. Beside him, Stevie was laying out, fresh from taking a swim in the ocean himself. 

“Decided to stop holding back?” Steven asked nonchalantly. Stiles shrugged as he pulled his legs closer to his chest. 

“I mean, not really? I am just tired of pretending.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Steven said as he sat up. Stiles looked around for Jackson, but he was nowhere in sight. “But I understand why you are.” 

“It’s hard,” Stiles said, his eyes squinting as he looked at Steven. “But having Derek makes it easier. I’m not alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone even if you didn’t have him,” Steven said, giving Stiles a small smile. Stiles returned it, then went to join Derek in the water. 

The match against Ivory Coast was a big deal to Stiles, mainly because he was finally starting. One thing he liked about the World Cup is that they were very secluded, that they weren’t privy really to what was being said by pundits and the outside world, unless it was mentioned during one of the matches they were watching. 

So when Stiles got a call from his dad before he headed to down to the bus to take the team to the stadium, he was shocked by what his dad had to say. 

“Are you sure you haven’t been in contact with Real Madrid, son?” His dad asked. Stiles shook his head, his brow furrowed. 

“What? No! Why would you think that?” 

“Because it is all over the news that you are going to sign. I hadn’t heard from you in a few days...”

“Dad, I’m not going anywhere. Real Madrid, really?” Stiles asked, wondering what they wanted with him when they had the likes of Ronaldo. “I haven’t heard a thing.” 

“Keep me updated, kiddo, I don’t want to be thrown for a loop-”

“I’m not leaving Liverpool, Dad, Brendan and I talked before the Cup. There’s nothing to discuss with Real Madrid.”

“Alright, you be safe out there, Stiles. I don’t want you getting hurt in the match.” Stiles gulped, wondering where that came from. 

“I’ll be fine, dad.” 

“I love you,” he said. Stiles said the same before he hung up the phone. 

The match was tense, the pace quick, and the tackles sharp. Stiles’ mind was elsewhere, on Real Madrid when he got tackled the first time. He got up fine, but when it happened again the next time he got the ball, he realized what was happening: Ivory Coast considered him dangerous and they were trying to take him down. 

“Fucking hell,” Stiles said after the third time it happened, his arms flying up into the air in exasperation as he looked to the referee. “Going to call this, ref?” He shouted as he was pulled up to his feet by Ashley Young. 

“Calm down,” Ashley said as Stiles made to walk towards the man who took him to the ground. 

“They’re fucking with me,” Stiles said as he raked his fingers through his hair and spit to the side, his chest heaving. “I can’t get two steps without them blocking me or tackling me. They should be carded!” Stiles ended on a shout, his anger getting the better of him. 

“Stiles, lad, you’ve gotta calm down,” Steven said, coming up to him for the free kick. “What I want you to do is fall back. I’m going to pass the ball to you, then I want it to go straight back to Derek. Then make a run for it, got it?” Steven asked him as he looked Stiles in the eye. Stiles nodded his head in understanding as he ran down the field, away from other players. They were eyeing him, one right on his tail, but Steven’s pass connected with him, and he sent the ball back to Derek. 

He shot out like a bullet down the field, bringing two players with him as they followed him. He knew as soon as Derek passed the ball to Steven that he was a decoy. Steven scored and Stiles stopped running. Stiles joined the pile of players that surrounded Steven and Derek, his fingers grabbing hold of Derek’s kit in order to bring him closer, their heads butting together as everyone jumped up and down around them. They linked fingers for just a moment, until everyone began to disperse. Stiles dropped his hand instead of clapping Stevie on the back for getting his first goal of the tournament. 

The rest of the first half went on without another goal, although two Ivory Coast players, along with Stevie, got yellow cards for harsh tackles. 

In the locker room, Stiles massaged his own thighs as he sat on a bench listening to Roy’s halftime speech. He wanted another goal, he wanted that brace to ensure that Ivory Coast would stay down, that they would go on to the quarter-finals. 

Stiles’ moment came when he was tackled by a player. It was by the centerline, and Stiles made it a quick free kick instead of fully stopping play, using it to his advantage. He lobbed it, sending it through the air, catching the goalie by surprise. He was way outside of the box, and for a moment it looked like it would go over the post, but the ball found the back of the net instead. Stiles stood there for a moment slack-jawed as it registered that he actually scored from that far away. It reminded him of Xabi Alonso’s kick from behind the centerline way back when. Steven was beside him in seconds, as were the rest of the midfielders along with Wayne Rooney, the other striker. 

Stiles felt Derek’s hands on him, holding his wrist as he got hugged and jumped on by everyone. With ten minutes left on the clock, it didn’t look as though Ivory Coast would be moving forward in the tournament and Stiles had four World Cup goals. 

The whistle blew with only one minute of stoppage time. England was going to the quarter-finals. After celebrating, Stiles was ushered over to an interviewer, a microphone shoved in his face. 

“Stiles, how does it feel to have the most goals so far in the Cup?” They asked him. Stiles stood there wide-eyed, unaware that no one else had surpassed him. 

“I actually didn’t know that,” Stiles said genuinely. “But it feels great, I just want England to do well, to do my part,” Stiles said as he licked his lips. He wanted water. He looked around for Derek, for Stevie, as the interviewer asked him another question. 

“Any official word on you signing for Real Madrid?” They asked. Thank god his father talked to him before the match or Stiles would have had no idea what they were on about. 

“I can’t discuss that openly,” Stiles confessed, knowing the drill. “But at this time I just want to say that I bleed Liverpool Red, and that’s all I’ll say on that point.” He walked away then, not wanting to answer any more questions about the transfer season. Something could have happened between Brendan and Ancelotti, the Real Madrid Manager, that Stiles didn’t know about. It made his stomach churn, but he tried not to think about it as he made his way down the tunnel, where Derek was waiting for him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> It's the penultimate chapter! I can't believe there is only one chapter left!

There were six days until the next match, and Stiles was glad of it. He needed rest. They were staying in Rio de Janeiro for a few more days and were even allowed to sleep in the day following the win against Ivory Coast. 

Stiles tried not to think about the impending match against Brazil, the host country, and the lead up to the quarter-finals. There were only eight teams left in the tournament now, and the pressure Stiles felt was immense. Brazil had won all of their matches thus far and weren’t just scraping by like Stiles felt like England had been. Add the rumors about his inevitable move to Real Madrid into the mix, along with Jackson’s incessant obsession with Stiles, and he was just about ready to have a nervous breakdown. 

Stiles stayed behind as the team toured a nearby town. Theo left him curled up in bed, flipping through channels on the TV he couldn’t understand, save for a sports channel but he didn’t want to hear any more about the World Cup. He needed some escapism, but he didn’t know where to get it from. 

About ten minutes after the bus was due to leave, there was a knock on Stiles’ door. Stiles hopped out of bed, wearing only a pair of briefs, thinking that it was Derek. 

Instead, it was Roy. Embarrassed, Stiles let Roy in, then quickly pulled on a pair of track pants and a shirt. 

“I wasn’t expecting you, sir,” Stiles said, his cheeks reddened. 

“I can see that,” Roy said with a sigh as he looked around the room instead of directly at Stiles. “I was surprised to see you weren’t on the bus for the tour.”

“I needed some... space,” Stiles admitted. Stiles looked at his phone, hoping that Derek wasn’t on his way. He didn’t want him showing up with Roy there. 

“I can understand that. I think the rest of the team went, though, I saw the last of them loading the bus, Hale and Young were the last ones on.” Stiles’ stomach plummeted. “Hale wasn’t going to go, but I talked him into it.” 

There it was, then. Roy knew, and he made Derek go with the rest of the team. Stiles wouldn’t let it show that they had planned on spending the day in bed together, though. 

“I was just going to rest, maybe go down to the gym, or go for a swim in the pool.” Roy narrowed his eyes at Stiles, but didn’t say anything else. 

“Good job on your work for the team,” Roy said eventually. “Keep it up, and we may beat Brazil.”

“As long as I play, sir,” Stiles said cheekily. Roy’s features darkened, but Stiles stood his ground. “I can’t help if I’m on the bench.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Roy said. “I’m still deciding the lineup. Hold your tongue, or you will be on that bench.” 

Stiles bit his lip as he nodded his head. He may have stepped out of line, but he was over being pushed around because of his sexuality. He could play, and no one was going to put him down because of it. 

The team was back by dinner time, and Stiles joined them in the dining hall of the hotel. He sat across from Derek, but didn’t talk to him much. He got a nudge from Derek’s shoe but pulled his leg away so Derek’s couldn’t bother him anymore. He wasn’t in the mood for it. 

After dinner, he went straight up to his room, knowing Derek would follow. He left the door ajar before he crawled into his bed, kicking his shoes off before he got under the covers. He was only nineteen -- he didn’t know how to deal with all this shit that was being thrown at him, especially from his manager, someone he was supposed to put all his trust in. He felt sick. 

Not even minutes went by before there was a soft knock on the door, then the sound of it creaking open, only to have it close moments later. The bed dipped down, and Derek sighed beside him. Stiles didn’t move, didn’t want to look at Derek because he knew if he did, he would let his emotions bubble up to the surface. 

“What’s this really about?” Derek asked finally, after a lingering silence. 

“Everything,” Stiles said a little too loud. “Everything is fucked.”

“I am going to need more than that,” Derek pressed as his hand nudged at Stiles’ shoulder. 

“This is fucking hard, okay? I can’t - I can’t deal with this.”

“Deal with what?” Derek asked, pulling on Stiles’ arm, rolling Stiles over so he was practically in Derek’s lap. Stiles pressed his palm against Derek’s thigh, his face rubbing against it as he sighed out in frustration. 

“Roy, he came and talked to me today, and I’m so done with all of this.”

“All of what, Stiles? I need you to be more specific. Done with us?” Derek asked, his hand in Stiles’ hair. Stiles looked away, towards the wall. 

“No,” he said. “No, I need you. I want you, I just don’t want this shit, these hoops I have to jump through. And Real Madrid wants me? Fuck. I don’t want to move to Spain. I don’t speak fucking Spanish and I’d be away from you and Dad and I don’t want that. I don’t even want to be here-”

Derek calmed Stiles down by raking his fingers down Stiles’ back and up again. 

“What if Brendan sells me,” Stiles said as he sat up. “What if I have to go?”

“Brendan wouldn’t sell you, Stiles. You’re the hottest player right now-” Stiles snorted at Derek’s choice of words. “Stop it, you know what I mean. You’re all that the pundits are talking about. You’ve taken England out of the 40 to 1 chance to win the Cup to 5 to 1. We’ve got a chance because of you, and you need to realize that Roy and Brendan both know what they are doing, even if Roy is being a fucking asshole about it.” 

“Well then,” Stiles said with a shaky breath. “5 to 1, huh?” Derek smiled at him, capturing his lips in a kiss. 

“All you,” Derek reassured him. “So stop moping.” 

“I can mope if I want,” Stiles said, shoving at Derek without any malice behind him. 

“I’d rather you smile,” Derek said, which made Stiles do exactly that. 

The quarter-final was in Fortaleza. 

Stiles was rooming with Stevie, which he realized he sorely needed when he collapsed on his bed. He didn't have to pretend, didn't have to put on a front in front of Steven. He was finally able to relax a little. Derek even came over for a while as they watched TV, and for once they were on the same floor. 

After training the day before the match against Brazil, Stiles got a call from Brendan Rodgers. 

"Stiles, I wanted to touch base with you about what we talked about before you went to Brazil," Brendan said. Stiles was sitting in his room with Derek and Steven, who was getting ready to go out but stayed when Stiles waved him back. 

"Sure," Stiles said, barely breathing. He was holding Derek's hand, afraid that Brendan was about to tell him he was sold to Madrid for a hefty sum. Liverpool could sell Stiles easily in order to bring in two strikers or another midfielder like they so desperately needed. Stiles looked to Steven for strength.

"Madrid have been persistent with their pursuit of you and have offered the club thirty million --" Stiles sucked in a breath, because he hadn't realize he was worth that much, but Real Madrid had that money, that's for sure. But he'd be on the bench, what with Cristiano Ronaldo on the team. He didn't want to be benched, he wanted to play for a team that needed him. He wanted to play for Liverpool. "Have you talked with your agent at all about this offer?"

"No, sir," Stiles said seriously. "And no offense, but my answer is the same as it was before the Cup, and my agent knows that. I'm where I want to be, but if you feel like I'm no longer wanted at the club then there isn't really anything I can do."

"Now, Stiles, I didn't say the club didn't want to keep you. I just want to make sure you've thought about this, that that is really your final decision." 

"It is, I don't want to leave Liverpool." 

"That's good to hear, Stiles," Brendan said. "Good luck tomorrow against Brazil."

When Stiles hung up, he leaned back against the headboard of the bed, his eyes closed. He had been sure he was about to be sold. The feeling of dread hung heavy in his stomach as Derek placed a comforting hand on Stiles' knee. 

"You didn't have anything to worry about, lad, he wasn't going to sell you," Steven reassured him. "But I'm glad you're staying."

"Like I'd leave you," Stiles said with a smile. "They'd have to drag me from Anfield kicking and screaming." Steven rolled his eyes, but Stiles could tell it eased his mind as well, knowing that Stiles wasn't leaving him for Real Madrid. 

"Madrid's not too bad," Steven said as he headed towards the door. "Xabi's there."

"That'd be awesome to play with him," Stiles said as he picked at the comforter beneath him. "I think I'll just wait for him to come back to Anfield, though," Stiles murmured. It was every Liverpool fan's hope and dream that Xabi Alonso would return to Anfield, having been the one of the biggest Liverpool losses when he was sold without wanting to leave. Stiles never got the chance to play with him before.

Steven gave Stiles one last look before he headed down the hall to give them some much needed space. 

Stiles sat in bed, unmoving after Steven left him and Derek alone. Eventually, he leaned forward until his head rested on the blanket in front of him. 

"You were stressing about nothing," Derek said as his hand slid up Stiles' back. Stiles grunted indescribably as he buried his face into the comforter. 

"It wasn't nothing," Stiles said, his voice muffled. "It would be devastating-"

"But nothing happened, so you're fine," Derek said as he moved to lay beside Stiles, who made himself more comfortable by stretching his legs back. Derek hooked a leg over Stiles', pulling him close. "You're fine."

"What if I had to go to Spain?" Stiles asked as he looked Derek in the eye as it peeked out from under the blanket. "What would we do?" 

"We'd work something out," Derek whispered as he leaned in, kissing Stiles' ear. "Stop worrying about what could have been. Steven's out, let's take advantage."

"I want to hold you," Stiles said. "And just lay here." Derek looked surprised, but he didn't protest Stiles' request. "I just want to touch you," Stiles said as he shifted, his hands reaching out for Derek, wrapping around him. Derek's leg over Stiles' body pulled him even closer as Stiles' leg slipped between Derek's, his foot rubbing up Derek's bare calf, his hands slipping beneath the fabric of Derek's shirt so his palms rested against skin. Stiles let out an audible sigh as he closed his eyes. "Are we home yet?"

"No," Derek said eventually. His limbs were limp, heavy as he rested his weight against Stiles, relaxing completely. "Soon."

Stiles wished they were in England. 

That night, after dinner, Stiles wasn't at all surprised to find himself in the starting eleven against Brazil. He was necessary, needed if England were to make it through to the semi-finals. Stiles had tunnel vision, he couldn't turn off his thoughts about the match. He knew players on Brazil's national team. He knew Lucas Leiva from Liverpool, for one, personally. So far in the Cup, he hadn't come across many players from Liverpool. Tomorrow they'll be playing against one of the fan favorites to win the Cup. In no way would it be an easy match. 

Steven went to bed early, leaving Stiles wide awake, roaming the hall because he couldn't keep still. He called Scott, who was happy to talk to him for almost an hour as Stiles sat in a corner near a stairwell, moving his feet back and forth to keep moving. When he was done talking to Scott, Stiles texted Derek where he was, hoping he was awake. 

Eventually, Stiles heard the padding of feet down the hallway, and eventually Derek came into view wearing boxers and a t-shirt, his hair a mess from sleep. 

"You look hot," Stiles said with a smile, which got him a grunt as Derek scratched at his belly. Stiles reached out, making grabby hands with his fingers for Derek to come forward and help him to his feet. It led to a hug and Stiles kissing Derek's collarbone. It was two in the morning the night before a match, and everyone was asleep. 

"Stiles," Derek said as his head hung back, his chin up as Stiles licked a line up his neck. "We're in the open."

"I can't sleep."

"So you think fucking is a good idea?" Derek asked as he yawned. Stiles tugged at Derek’s shirt, his fingers teasing at the band of Derek’s boxers, making Derek hum as he lifted an eyebrow lazily at Stiles.

“No, but I just-” Derek’s lips silenced Stiles’ pleas as Derek pushed Stiles up against the wall with a thud. “I just want you.” Derek grinned against Stiles’ mouth as he spread Stiles’ legs with his own, finally hoisting Stiles into the air, sliding his back up the wall. Stiles hooked his legs around Derek’s waist as his lips caught on Derek’s, his hands cupping Derek’s face. Feeling Derek against him had Stiles throbbing between his legs, wanting the friction. They hadn’t fucked the day before, instead falling asleep side by side. Now, though, he wanted it, craved it. “Please.” Stiles said as Derek gripped his ass, his teeth scraping against Stiles’ neck as he sucked at his skin. Stiles groaned, his mouth hanging open as he rutted against Derek’s erection as it pressed against his ass. 

“Whoa,” a voice said, ripping Stiles out of his reverie quicker than being doused with ice water would have. He scrambled to get his feet on the ground, his hand stretching his shirt over his flagging erection as Andy Carroll stood there in the hallway, his eyes wide at finding Derek and Stiles in a compromising position in the hallway. 

“Fuck,” Derek whispered. His neck was turned so he could see Andy, but he kept his back turned, saving Andy from the view of his own erection. Stiles bit his lip, panic rising within him. 

“I’ll just, yeah,” Andy said as he pointed back down the hall, towards his room. Stiles started breathing shallowly as he yanked at his own hair, going after Andy. Derek stopped him by wrapping his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. 

“Let him go, Stiles,” Derek said. Stiles pulled his hand away as he shook his head. 

“I can’t, I gotta go after him,” Stiles said as he headed down the hall. Andy’s door was already shut. Stiles stood there in front of it for a moment, then knocked quietly multiple times. Andy cracked open the door, looking at Stiles, then at Derek who was standing back a little. 

“What’s up?” Andy asked, his voice low. Stiles was practically hyperventilating in front of him, his fingers wrung together worriedly as he tried to think of what to say. 

“About, that,” Stiles said, clearing his throat. “I just-”

“Hey, you know,” Andy said, shrugging his shoulder. “I let a guy stick a finger in me one time during a threesome, so I mean, if that’s your thing, you know. Not sure about the whole hallway thing, though. Exhibitionism is a bit-”

“Yeah, uh that isn’t, that was an accident,” Stiles said, relief flooding through him. “Not happening again.” 

“Alright,” Andy said, nodding his head at Derek. “Get it,” he said then shut the door, leaving Stiles gobsmacked. 

He covered his mouth, then laughed as he turned towards Derek who wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him in close. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles said into his own hand as he rest his forehead against Derek’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Derek said quietly. Stiles wasn’t at all surprised to feel Derek’s heart beating fast. He had been just as scared as Stiles was, but was the one comforting Stiles. “Andy won’t tell anyone.” 

“You sure?” Stiles asked, looking Derek in the eyes. 

“Positive,” Derek said. “But let’s not do that again.”

Derek walked Stiles back to his room. Stiles knew Derek had meant to leave him at the door, but he linked his fingers with Derek’s and pulled him into the room. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep without Derek by his side. Derek silently protested, but gave in as Stiles pulled him into the room. Silently, they got into Stiles’ bed, curling up next to each other. It didn’t take long for Stiles to fall asleep to the rhythm of Derek’s breathing. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, lads,” Steven said, waking Stiles and Derek up. He was standing over them with his hands on his hips. “This? This is going to come back to you guys, you know that right?” 

“I know,” Stiles said as he sat up in bed. 

“Leighton’s probably looking for Derek.” 

“Derek and I went for a run at sunup,” Stiles mumbled as he rubbed his eye. Steven gave him a look, then dropped his arms. 

“Alright,” Steven said as he walked into the bathroom. “In his nightie and everything.”

“I should go,” Derek said as he got out of bed. Stiles let him, watching Derek scratch himself as he stretched. Stiles smiled as he tilted his head up so when Derek walked around the bed, it was easier to kiss him. “See you later.”

“Love you,” Stiles whispered against his lips. 

“Love you,” Derek answered, and then he was gone. 

The last time England played Brazil, a friendly the spring before, England won 2-1. Obviously, Stiles wasn’t on the team at the time, but that gave him a certain confidence that they had a chance. Brazil was the favorite to go through, it being their home country, but he couldn’t think that going into a match. In the tunnel, he gave a nod to Lucas Leiva. Derek was standing behind him in line, and Stiles could feel the nervous energy radiating off of him as Derek shook his limbs in preparation. 

If England won the quarter-finals, they’d go on to the semis. If they lost, they’d be on a plane back to England as soon as they packed. As they walked out and listened to the two national anthems, Stiles couldn’t help but look out at the crowd. The stadium was packed, half in yellow, the other in white and blue. Steven lost the coin toss, giving Brazil the kick-off.

Stiles could feel the tension in the air as the crowd chanted. There was a constant buzz beneath his skin after the whistle blew. He ran without thinking. Dani Alves and Marcelo were two top defenders from Barcelona and Real Madrid, and they were giving Stiles a run for his money. He was having a hard time avoiding them. They were tackle happy as well, which Stiles didn’t care for, especially after the third time they took turns tackling him. Each time, he was helped up, though. 

It wasn’t until Dani Alves finally got a card for it that Stiles had had enough. As he was helped to his feet, Stiles walked off the pain from being taken to the ground, his fists clenched. Up until then, he had kept his cool about it, but they weren’t letting off. The constant barrage of fouls was messing with Stiles. When play resumed, Stiles wasn't going to mess around. The next time that Dani Alves took the ball from him, Stiles took him to the ground out of pure frustration. He got to his feet, along with Dani, who got into Stiles' face. 

"You better step off," Dani said, practically pressing his forehead against Stiles'. If they touched with their hands, they'd get it. 

"Fucking leave me alone," Stiles screamed, his fists clenched. It took everything in him to keep from punching Dani right then and there. He was grabbed from behind, pulled away from Dani who spit to the ground beside Stiles' feet. 

"You," the referee said, pointing at Stiles, "calm down right now." Stiles wrenched his body from whoever was holding him. Steven was there, talking to the referee about the situation.

"Tell him to fucking actually make calls!" Stiles shouted as his face was grabbed by Derek, his eyes finding Derek's as his chest heaved. Dani was being held back as well. "He didn't call dick," Stiles said, worked up. 

"I know," Derek said. "But you need to stop. You're going to get carded." 

"He needs to be fucking sent off," Stiles said, his voice manic. "He wouldn't leave me alone." 

Stiles and Derek turned their heads to the referee, who held up a yellow towards Stiles, but gave nothing to Dani in return, who already had a yellow. 

"Bullshit," Stiles spat. "This ref is fucking biased." It was no secret that some referees tried to push a game a certain way, but to Stiles, this was blatant. "Fucking bullshit." Stiles walked away from Derek, his fingers in his hair. Sometimes, he forgot that he had an entire stadium full of people watching him. Now, he'd be on almost every TV around the world cussing up a storm. He flushed as his hands moved to his hips, gripping tight to his shirt. 

Dani Alves winked at Stiles just before play resumed and Stiles swore at him, bumping into him on purpose as the free kick was taken by Steven. He shoved at Stiles in the mayhem, unseen by the referee. By the time it was halftime, Stiles was livid. 

Roy was unamused by Stiles' antics. 

"If you think I won't pull you out of the match, you'll be sorely mistaken," Roy said after he gave the entire team their speech. "Do not, I repeat, _do not_ get carded again and sent off. If we go on to the next round, I don't want you to miss the semi-final, you hear me?"

"What do you want me to do, then?" Stiles asked, his hands coming up angrily. "I can't do anything, I can barely kick the ball without them tackling me. I've got bruises up and down my legs-"

"Just don't get carded," Roy repeated. 

During a corner kick half-way through the second half, Stiles was surrounded by Dani and Marcelo, sandwiched between them. Stiles tried to push them off, but to no avail. He couldn't even jump into the air when the kick was taken. 

So, Stiles did the only thing he could think of, he went to the ground in the box. He hadn't meant to do it, really, but as Dani shoved at him, he didn't catch himself. He hated diving, but in the moment, he did it. He fell onto his wrist, which legitimately hurt. He rolled onto his side, clutching it as the whistle blew and the referee asked everyone to step back. The ball had been cleared, but now that didn't matter. A yellow card went up, pointed at Dani Alves. He was officially out of the match, sent off for two yellows, and England got a penalty kick for Stiles being taken down in the box. 

Steven was there, helping Stiles to his feet, a strong arm on Stiles' elbow. 

"You okay?" Steven asked. Stiles nodded, moving his wrist. It hurt, but he'd wait until the match was over to have it looked at. Steven was to take the penalty kick. Everyone cleared the box, and Stiles stood by Derek as he held his wrist. Derek leaned close to him, his hand covering his mouth so no cameras could see what he was saying. 

"Don't think everyone believed that dive," Derek said, his tone harsh. Stiles bristled, because he had never heard that tone from Derek, not since the early fall, when they first played against each other. 

"I didn't," Stiles hissed. Derek gave him a look, and Stiles didn't even notice that Steven scored. He felt numb as he watched Derek celebrate with the rest of the team. Stiles was pulled into it by Steven, who pulled him into a hug. 

"Don't worry about it, lad," he said as he kissed Stiles' neck and pat his back before he turned around and lifted his arms into the air, looking towards the fans, sending them a kiss as well. As they made their way to the center line, Stiles felt sick to his stomach over the fact that Derek was mad at him. 

With Brazil down a man, they made a substitution, one of their midfielders for another defender to cover Dani's section. They were going on the defense instead of pushing for a goal. With ten minutes left on the clock, there wasn't much time for them to equalize against England or get a brace. Stiles managed to get the ball three times and even had two shots, but neither were on goal. One went wide, the other over the goal. He was beyond frustrated, and he raged when he saw his number come up on the sidelines. 

He was being subbed off. He looked at the clock; it was the eighty-third minute. With seven minutes left on the clock, Stiles walked off the field to Brazilians booing and England fans cheering his name. He never felt so despondent about leaving the pitch. Stiles walked past Roy, who had his arms crossed, and sat on the bench, slouching down in it as a physio checked his wrist. 

When the whistle blew, England won 0-1 on Steven's penalty kick that Stiles got for them by diving. He felt dirty, like he not only disappointed himself but everyone around him as well. But England were through, they were going to the semi-finals in the World Cup. Stiles wished it felt better, that it meant something more to him at that moment, but all he could feel was that deep disappointment within himself. 

He showered without talking to anyone, and put his headphones in on the bus as he sat next to Derek. The bus ride was spent with him looking out the window. He felt like a hypocrite. He hated when players dove, and there he was, diving in the World Cup and getting someone sent off for it. The first thing Stiles did when he got up to his room was lock himself in the bathroom. He knew Steven was in the room, waiting to talk with him, but he was avoiding it. 

After a while, there was a knock at the door. Stiles sat against the door, not wanting to move. 

"Lad, we want to talk to you," Steven said just on the other side of the door. 

"Who is 'we'?" Stiles asked although he knew the answer. 

"Derek's here with me," Steven said. Stiles stood up, but didn't open the door even though his hand was on it. 

"Nope, I'm good, actually. I don't need to be yelled at. Feel bad enough already." 

"No one's going to yell at you," Derek said. Stiles rolled his eyes but opened the door. 

"You already let me know how you felt about it," Stiles said with narrowed eyes. "No need to rub it in." Derek was wearing plain clothes, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Both Steven and Stiles were still in their tracksuits. 

"We're not rubbing in nothing," Steven said. "You're probably beating yourself up enough, we couldn't do any better." Steven was right, there. Stiles crossed his arms, looking to the ground. "They were pushing you, wanting you to get a red. It was unprofessional, and you were angry," Steven said with a shrug. "But you did it smartly. The referee didn't see it, saw you on the ground and knew what had gone on all match.

"I shouldn't have done it," Stiles almost shouted. "I didn't even think. You kicked the ball, I was shoved, I didn't even try to-"

"You were shoved?" Derek asked. 

"Yeah!" Stiles said. "But I could have caught myself, I just didn't-"

"So it wasn't a complete dive." 

"What? I could have put my foot out and stopped myself, I just fucking didn't do it. I went to the ground easily. A dive is a fucking dive-"

"Stiles, it's okay," Derek said, putting his hands on Stiles' shoulders. "If you were shoved-"

"It's still a dive, and you were mad at me," Stiles said with a shaky breath. "I feel like shit because that is a goal we shouldn't have gotten. What would have happened if we didn't get that? Would Brazil have won? Would we have gone to a shootout?" Stiles asked. A penalty shootout would happen if at the end of the ninety minutes in a knockout round there was a draw. First, there would be two fifteen minute halves of open play with a short on-pitch halftime. If, at the end of that, there was no goal, then penalties would be taken to determine the winner. Stiles was glad it hadn't come to that. 

"You can't think like that, lad," Steven said. "You can only think about the match to come. Brazil is out, we're in the semi-finals. You're going into it with a card under your belt. You're going to have to be careful." 

Stiles looked to Derek, who was silent. He hated thinking that Derek was disappointed in him for diving. He was allowed to dislike himself for it, but it hurt more knowing Derek was upset at him for it. Stiles wondered what his dad saw. He wondered what it looked like from the TV, if it was blatantly obvious, or if it really looked like he was shoved. 

"Roy might not play me," Stiles said honestly. He sent Andy Carroll in to replace Stiles. There were other strikers on the team that Roy could play. It didn't have to be Stiles. 

"He sent you off because you were being a hothead," Steven said. "I would have done the same. You were a time bomb today. 

"I blame last night," Derek said, looking straight at Stiles. "I think... we need to back off." 

"What?" Stiles asked, eyes wide. Steven cleared his throat, then pointed at the door. 

"I'm... going to go to Frank's room." 

When Steven was gone, Stiles rounded on Derek. 

"Are you breaking up with me because I fucking dove?" Stiles asked, his voice rising. 

"What? No!" Derek said, exasperated. "I wouldn't fucking do that, I just - Stiles, we were caught last night. And today your playing was sloppy. You never get into fights on the pitch." 

"I don't want to not be with you," Stiles admitted aloud. "I need you."

"I need you, too, but I'm not about to let us fuck up England's chances at the Cup," Derek said. "I'm not saying anything about breaking up. I'm saying we take a step back. No more sleeping together, no more exhibitionism attempts. I don't want to fuck this up."

"We aren't going to fuck it up," Stiles couldn't help but shout. "Why can't you... we're... fuck," Stiles said as he turned away from Derek. "I won't fuck up again."

"Stiles, this isn't about you fucking up. I didn't play well either. Honestly, if you hadn't done what you did, we'd all probably be on a plane back to England right now. I'm saying that 'us' is a distraction, here. I love you, and I want to be with you, but here? Here we need to keep our heads in the game."

Defeated, Stiles nodded his head once. 

"So, like, what? No kissing? No touching, what do you want from me?" Stiles asked, his voice quiet. What he needed were Derek's arms around him, not to be pushed away. What with being caught the night before and the stunt he pulled during the match, all he wanted was comfort. 

"Yes, I mean, no. I don't know, all I know is we're walking on thin ice here. I don't want it anymore than you do, I just think it isn't wise to keep this up here." 

"Keep it up?" Stiles asked. "Like it's some sort of ruse or game? That's not how I see this," Stiles signaled between the two of them.

"That's not what I meant," Derek pointed out. "It's just until the match, Stiles. Four days." 

"Can I sit next to you?" Stiles asked. 

"Of course," Derek said, his brow furrowed. "Stiles, I just mean we shouldn't fuck." 

"Ugh," Stiles said but felt better about it. Derek was right, they needed to put some distance between them. They were becoming too comfortable being around each other, they had put their guard down. "Fine, no fucking." Stiles pulled Derek towards him, his lips finding Derek's easily. 

"Glad Alves got a red though, I wanted to fuck him up for tackling you like that," Derek said against Stiles' lips. 

"Whose idea was this again? The ‘no fucking’?" Stiles asked as he felt Derek's hands slide down his side, gripping his ass. Derek groaned, then took a step back. 

"Mine," Derek groaned. "Regretting it already." 

"Hah," Stiles said as he kissed Derek once more chastely before stepping back. "You blue balled yourself."

"Shut up." 

The semi-final was in Belo Horizonte against Germany. Stiles knew it would come to that, that they'd have to play Germany at some point in the World Cup. They had been at the top of their group, and were the first to score in each of the knockout rounds. Where England had been a mess and barely pulled through thus far, Germany practically breezed through it. There were four teams left in the tournament: England, Germany, Spain and Mexico. 

It was an out of body sort of feeling that Stiles had as he readied for the match. He had a talk with Roy, where he told him what happened against Brazil wouldn't happen again. Roy told him that he didn't want to take any risks by playing Jackson, so Stiles was starting against Germany. 

Not being with Derek was easier than Stiles thought it would be, initially. They weren't rooming together again and went back to texting constantly. It was like old times, as Stiles liked to call it. In a way, it was good to take a step back and not have everything be about the physical aspect of their relationship. Not everything was about sex. 

But that didn't mean that Stiles hadn't jacked off in the shower every night because he wasn't kidding himself at all when he realized how accustomed he had come to having Derek's hands on him and his cock up his ass. Luckily, Stiles brought his own bag of toys. He took pictures for Derek, which was all kinds of hot when he got some in return. It was a nightly thing, and Stiles was pretty sure that his roommate, Ashley Young, was a little worried about him, but didn't say anything when Stiles' showers were a little over an hour long. 

The night before the match, Stiles called Scott, who had gone home in the last round. 

"I'm so fucking proud of you, bro," Scott said over the receiver. 

"Thanks," Stiles said as he let out a sigh. "I'm starting, but I've got a card going in."

"All cards are discarded after this match, right? The final starts over with them. So don't worry about that." 

"I hate cards," Stiles said. He was sitting in the hallway, not wanting to keep Ashley up. "I'm nervous. Germany, Scott."

"You got it. Friendlies aren't anything, this will be the real deal."

"That's what I'm afraid of. Germany is fucking brilliant, Scott." 

"Yeah? Well so are you. Now score a goal for me tomorrow or I’ll get mad." Stiles laughed, then promised he would. When he got into bed, he texted Derek until he finally fell asleep. 

Stiles was so nervous he thought he could throw up. Germany were stoic beside them as they were ready to walk down the tunnel. Their line up was so good that he wanted to hide in a corner. Their side was always deep, full of top class players. Stiles had a hard time remembering that he himself was a top class player, according to the pundits. He felt small, though, next to the likes of Ozil and Schweinsteiger. 

As the national anthems were played, Stiles couldn't help but think about the friendly back in the fall. He had to make sure this match didn't go the same way as that had. The whistle blew, and Stiles ran. He didn't stop, not for a second, making sure he was always open. Germany held most of the possession, their passing spot-on and quick. But Steven was a master tackler, able to nick the ball from them. Stiles was determined to play well, nothing fishy. Luckily, Germany played cleanly. Real football that didn't require dives or brute force. Passes with interceptions instead of harsh tackles and cards. 

Germany scored first, off of a corner. 

Stiles tried not to let it get to him, with fifteen minutes left in the first half. There was time, he wouldn't let it get him down and take the game from him fully. Set pieces were key, he knew. Stiles managed to get a corner for England, that Steven took for the team. Stiles stood in the group of players, at the ready when Steven made the kick. Stiles jumped, his head making contact as he forced it towards the goal. 

The entire stadium took a breath, silence falling for just a moment before screams burst out when the ball made contact with the back of the net. Stiles was pushed to the ground by his teammates as they piled on top of him. He equalized, giving England an even playing ground once more against Germany. They had a chance. 

Just before the whistle blew for halftime, Germany scored again.

It was a blow for England, heading into halftime one down. The locker room was quiet, but Steven was the one to pull the players back up again. 

"It's just one goal, lads," Steven said as he rallied everyone together, lifting their spirits. "All it takes is one shot and we'll be right back with them. Don't for a minute think that Germany's got this. Possession doesn't mean anything if they can't connect again. We've got more shots than they have, and have made more chances. Keep your heads in the game, don't go back on that pitch thinking we're already defeated. We won't win if you don't believe in yourselves." 

Stiles managed two shots on goal before Germany got a brace, making the score 1-3. It hurt, and he was stumbling. It felt hopeless, unobtainable until Wayne Rooney, with a burst of energy, surpassed the goalie making it 2-3. In the eighty-fifth minute, Stiles managed an assist during a free kick just outside the box. The score read 3-3 at the end of the ninety minutes and stoppage time. 

They were going into overtime. 

With a short break in the locker room, Roy talked about how they could win this, that they fought hard to keep up with Germany, giving them a run for their money. All Stiles could think about was how tired he was, how much his muscles ached from running for ninety minutes. An extra fifteen could break him, he knew. He wasn't alone in thinking this. A physio massaged his legs quickly before they made their way back out onto the field. His muscles were tight as the clock counted to fifteen. 

Even Germany lagged, the play slower with short bursts of energy when each team attempted to score. When the whistle blew, signifying that there would be a penalty shootout, Stiles sat on the ground, stretching his legs out. They were brought water as the order was talked about. Only players currently on the field could be chosen to kick a penalty in a shootout. Five players were chosen to kick: Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard, Wayne Rooney, Stiles, and Jack Wilshere were decided on. The order was key. Germany’s five were Marislov Klose, Mario Gomez, Mesut Ozil, Bastian Schweinsteiger, and Lukas Podolski. 

Stiles was pulled to his feet by Derek. Stiles was so stiff it hurt to walk. First up was Germany, after a coin toss then each team would take turns shooting on goal; the best of five would win. 

Mario Gomez stepped up to the penalty spot, nothing between him and the back of the net except for Joe Hart. Stiles held his breath as Mario took the shot. The ball hit the back of the net, Joe on the ground. He had gone the opposite way. 

That meant Germany had one, and England zero as Frank Lampard went up first for England. Manuel Neuer, Germany’s goalkeeper, caught his ball. Stiles’s stomach sank, but England still had a chance. Mesut Ozil was second for Germany, but Joe Hart managed a save. England roared as Joe jumped into the air. Tension was high as Manuel made his way back into goal.

It was Steven’s turn at taking a penalty. He took his time before taking it, and Stiles let out a breath as soon as Steven’s foot had contact with the ball. He made it seem easy as the ball seamlessly hit the back of the net. England were even with Germany. There was still a chance. 

Marislov Klose managed to score, then Wayne Rooney’s attempt earned England their equalizer. Stiles couldn’t breathe as it was 2-2, with Germany’s chance. If they managed another goal, England wouldn’t be able to catch up. Lukas Podolski’s shot went straight into Joe Hart’s gloves, making Stiles’s stomach tumble as Stiles was pushed forward.

It was his turn, and he felt like he could be sick all over the pitch. 

He breathed in and out slowly as he set the ball down and took two steps back from it, squaring his shoulders. He didn’t dare look back at Derek or at Steven. The only thing between them and the Cup now was Manuel Neuer. 

Stiles took another breath, then took a step, making sure his foot made perfect contact with the ball. He made it a corner shot, his body angling just so. It was a slight feint, but Manuel managed to block it. It bounced off of his shin, though, sending it back out towards Stiles. 

As Stiles’ heart jumped, he rushed forward, his foot connecting with the ball without thinking. The ball hit the back of the net as Manuel fell to the ground. Stiles scored. He was in shock as he was grabbed by his shirt as his teammates rushed forward. Steven kissed him, shaking him as he screamed. Derek, too, couldn’t hold back as he mirrored Steven’s actions. Stiles, despite his exhaustion, jumped into the air then ran towards the stands, practically jumping up into the crowd. 

He hoped that his goal put Germany off. They had one chance to get ahead of England now. But as Bastian Schweinsteiger went up, Stiles knew they had Germany beat. Joe screamed as he caught Bastian’s ball, then tossed it back out into the pitch as their team rushed forward. 

England were going to the final, and Stiles felt unstoppable.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas: Lauren, Bk, Mel, and Beth. Thank you to Leni who made the prompt post and tagged me in it, everyone who made graphics, to those who read and commented, and to those who came to my ask box. You Will Never Walk Alone. 
> 
> I am really, really emotional about posting this last chapter. I hope you enjoyed this fic, because I certainly loved writing it.

'England vs. Spain in the Final: is Hodgson's side up to the task?'

Stiles couldn't turn off the sports channel he found in English. He was glued to it when not training. His mind was oversaturated in information about the Cup, about how Germany won third place in their match against Mexico. He watched transfer rumors, seeing his own name still mixed in with speculation of his moves to AC Milan or Real Madrid. There was talk of the Golden Boot Award, a trophy given to the player who scores the most goals during the tournament. Stiles was in the running for it, and that alone sent his mind reeling. 

They were back in Rio de Janeiro for the final, and Stiles couldn’t wait to go home. He hadn’t slept in Belo Horizonte, not without Derek, but now he lay in bed lazily, naked, next to him. They were finally roommates, and they had taken full advantage of that. 

Dinner was in just under an hour, but Stiles wasn’t ready to move just yet, so he continued watching talk of the World Cup from a pundit’s view. It was odd, living the World Cup and seeing it replay on screen as people talked about it. Derek was asleep beside him with a sheet covering his body. They just had marathon sex, Stiles came four times and he was pretty sure both he and Derek would be sore in the morning, but they hadn’t fucked in weeks and they deserved it. 

The room smelled of sex and sweat, but there was nothing Stiles could do about it until the maid service came in the next morning. They laid out on the clean bed, making sure they fucked in the same bed, leaving one for sleeping. It was their third day in Rio, with a few days remaining before the final still. 

When it was twenty until dinner, Stiles slid down in bed, his arm draped over Derek’s back, his nose nudging at Derek’s cheek in attempt to wake him. 

“Time to get up,” Stiles said, his breath hot against Derek’s skin. Derek grunted, shifting in bed, his body turning towards Stiles. 

“No,” Derek said as he hooked a leg over Stiles’. Derek’s original ‘take a step back’ idea went out the window the moment they were placed in the same room. They were executing every idea they had in how to keep each other as silent as possible as they fucked. The last round had been on the hotel chair, to keep the bed from banging against the wall. Stiles’ knees hurt, but he felt like it was worth it. 

“Yeah,” Stils said with a sigh. “We need to shower. We reek.” 

“No,” Derek said again, this time more resolute in his tone as his eyes opened. “Let’s order in.” 

“I fucking wish,” Stiles said with a grunt as he pushed Derek’s leg off of him so he could get up. “Are you going to keep your hands to yourself or do I have to shower alone?” Stiles asked him. 

“You keep your hands to yourself,” Derek said as he trailed a hand up Stiles stomach. “I don’t have that problem.” Stiles swatted his hand away as he rolled his eyes. He got out of bed, starting the shower. By the time the water heated up enough, Derek walked into the bathroom, joining him. Stiles made sure to soap himself down before they kissed, so he could tell himself he did actually manage to shower. 

Derek’s finger slipped between Stiles’ cheeks and he hissed into Derek’s mouth as they kissed. Moaning against Derek’s tongue, Stiles raked his fingers down Derek’s back as Derek moved his finger in and out slowly. 

“Sore,” Stiles said as he spread his legs. He wanted Derek, couldn’t deny himself that. Derek slid his finger out of him, then pressed three fingers flat against his opening, tapping it, making Stiles’ hips buck forward. “Don’t be an asshole,” Stiles teased. Derek chuckled as he kissed Stiles’ neck. 

“We don’t have time.”

“You’re the one that can’t keep his hands to himself,” Stiles pointed out as he stepped out of the shower. He was half hard now, but he didn’t think he had the energy to come again. He covered himself up with a towel, then left Derek to finish showering. 

They were inseparable at meals. Stiles ignored glares from Jackson, or side-eyes from Roy. Jackson wasn’t his problem, bitter for not playing another second of the Cup after his fuck up in the group stage. He wasn’t necessary to the team’s success. Luckily for Stiles, he had stayed away. Stiles sat next to Derek and Andy, who had started talking more with them, which surprised Stiles in the best way possible. Andy turned out to be really open-minded, and asked him and Derek a lot of questions, mostly about their relationship and how they made it work. 

Stiles was nervous about the match against Spain. They were the number one team in the world since the 2008 EuroCup. Not only did they win that, then the 2010 World Cup, but then turned around and also won the 2012 EuroCup again. It was the first time in history that had happened, and now they could break the record again if they won against England. Four tournaments in a row was on the line, and England was the only thing that stood in their way. A powerhouse team made up of mostly Barcelona and Real Madrid players, Spain’s National Team were truly unstoppable. No matter their starting lineup, they’d be tough opponents. 

They trained in the morning, took a break, then had another shorter training session in the late afternoon; but besides that, they were free to do whatever they wanted in the hotel. Most nights one of the rooms hosted a movie night or poker night. Martin Kelly had his PS4, and was holding his own FIFA World Cup tournament that way. Stiles and Derek made sure they were present for at least a little while, but usually ended up heading back to their room in the end. 

It was weird, the hotel life they had been living for the past month. Their days had been routine, filled with the same thing over and over in the different cities -- totally immersed in football in a way Stiles was not accustomed to back in Liverpool. They were cut off from the outside world, not able to walk around the city unless they were out together, taking an official tour of something. If Stiles were to go out, he’d be mobbed, but he didn’t want to. He’d rather be locked in his room with Derek, pushed against the mattress as Derek ate him out, or with his own hands spreading Derek’s cheeks apart so he could do the very same. 

For the first time, he felt like he knew what his life could be like if they lived together. It was different than waking up in Derek’s house, or Derek in his apartment. Their hotel room was equally theirs, and not just the other’s where they had crashed for the night. Living in close quarters with Derek was not easy, though. Everything was more personal, nothing could be hidden. But it made Stiles realize that was what he wanted, to share his space with Derek. It was what he’d miss most when they went back to England in a few days’ time. 

Stiles was outraged when the starting lineup was announced the night before the Final. 

Jackson was starting, and Stiles was on the bench. He didn’t want to seem petulant, knew that it was Roy’s decision, but Stiles believed it to be the wrong one. England were playing Spain, and they needed to provide a strong side against them. Jackson, not once, had proved himself to be a trustworthy striker. Spain’s defense was one of the best in the world, with Ramos and Pique along with Casillas in goal. Derek had to listen to Stiles’ tirade about it in their room after it was announced. 

Derek was starting, which wasn’t surprising. Stiles didn’t hold it against him, but when he called Scott before bed, he went into the bathroom to talk to him, needing his space from Derek for a moment. 

“I could have gone for a walk,” Derek said when Stiles emerged twenty minutes later. He was in bed, reading a book. Stiles tossed his phone on the bed, then flopped onto it himself, his arm resting on Derek’s thigh. 

“It’s fine, I just needed to vent,” Stiles said as he sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he looked up at Derek. “Tomorrow night we’re going home,” Stiles said with a smile. 

“We are,” Derek said, closing his book and putting it on the nightstand. 

“I wanted to talk to you, about home,” Stiles said as he sat up, Derek’s fingers linking with Stiles’ easily, his thumb rubbing the back of Derek’s hand. Stiles let out a sigh, unsure of how to broach the subject. 

“What’s on your mind? You stopped breathing,” Derek said, nudging Stiles with his hand in Stiles’. “You okay?”

“How attached to your house are you?” Stiles asked, looking down at their hands.

Derek stilled, his brow furrowing for a moment. 

"I mean, it's a nice house -- why? What are you thinking about?" 

"My contract is coming up soon," Stiles said, still not looking up at Derek. "I was thinking, you know, about us, here. I think I want to move in with you."

"Move to Manch-"

"I'm not moving to Manchester," Stiles said, his eyes meeting Derek's. "You know I can't do that, and I wouldn't ask you to move to Liverpool, even though your sister and uncle live there."

"Stiles..." Derek said, his eyes closing. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Stiles asked. 

"Because that is a big deal, moving in together. We wouldn't be able to hide it. The media would find out, no matter where we lived, they would find out. You're nineteen-"

"What does my age have to do with it?" Stiles asked. "And I know how serious it is, but I know this is what I want. Do you not want it?" Stiles asked, scared for the first time that maybe it wasn't what Derek wanted. 

"I love you," Derek said, pulling Stiles towards him, embracing him. "I just don't want you to regret being with me."

"Why... what? No," Stiles said against Derek's neck as he crawled into Derek's lap, facing him. "I like waking up next to you. I want a place of our own. I don't want to move into your house, because it is yours. It would always feel like your space. I want our space." 

"And the media?" Derek asked, his voice grave. Stiles bit his lip as he took his time replying. 

"Brendan knows," Stiles said, holding tighter to Derek. "Stevie knows, Roy knows. The people that make sure I play know. What about you? Do you-"

"I told you I would come out with you," Derek reminded him. "I wasn't kidding. I will be with you every step of the way." Stiles closed his eyes as he smiled. He would have Derek with him every step of the way. "But if we aren't going to live in Liverpool or Manchester, then where?"

"Between the two," Stiles said. "In like, Croft or something along the M6, something halfway with a gate and a lot of land." 

"A lot of land would be good," Derek said, his hand rubbing circles across Stiles' back. "We'd build, of course."

"Of course," Stiles said. 

"We can do that, I want that." 

"Really?" Stiles asked as he sat back up. "You really want to?" 

"Yeah, I do. We can both commute, it isn't far." Stiles kissed Derek on the mouth, unable to hide his relief and happiness. "We can talk about it after our vacation."

"Vacation," Stiles said slowly as he remembered their plans. "Where do you want to go?" Stiles asked. "I've never been anywhere."

"Nowhere?" Derek asked. Stiles shook his head. 

"Never even took a plane before, remember?" 

"I remember. We can go anywhere you want." 

"Paris?" Stiles asked. "That's romantic, right?"

"Do you want romantic?" Derek asked with an eyebrow lifted. "Or do you want remote?"

"What do you suggest, then?" 

"I suggest Australia, with a cabin in a rainforest by the beach."

"Does that even exist?" Stiles asked, wide-eyed. Derek nodded his head. "I want that, then." 

 

Stiles was in a good mood before the match, despite the fact that he wasn't starting. He sat next to Derek on the bus, their fingers linked together. They were no longer hiding, and something about holding Derek's hand on the bus felt freeing. They got a few looks from confused teammates, but nothing was said to them about it, not even in the locker room. 

On the bench, Stiles watched the beginning of the match, his stomach in knots as he watched Spain dominate the play. It didn't come as a surprise when Spain surpassed England's defense easily. Stiles put his head in his hands as David Villa scored from a Xavi assist. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't look away as England scored an equalizer not even a minute afterward, when Spain's defenses were down because they had just scored. 

"Holy fuck," Stiles said as he jumped to his feet. Wayne had scored it after Derek ran halfway down the field with the ball. The score remained at 1-1 until halftime, with multiple shots on goal for each team, but with two top class goalies it was hard to get past them. Stiles joined the team in the locker room, expecting not to go on until halfway through the second half, if at all. 

Roy surprised him again but pulling Stiles aside and telling him to warm up, that he would be going on at the start of the second half for Jackson. After a quick warm up, Stiles changed into his kit, joining the team in the tunnel as they waited to go back out. The two teams were talking idly to each other, with Steven standing in front of him stretching his hamstring as he talked to Xabi Alonso. Steven introduced them, and Stiles would be lying if he said his heart didn't skip a beat when he shook hands with Xabi. 

"Good luck," Xabi said to him. 

"You, too," Stiles said, looking between the two of them. "Isn't this the first time you guys have played against each other?" He couldn't help but asking. Steven gave Stiles a look, but Xabi smiled and nodded his head. 

"You're right, it is," Xabi said as he looked at Steven. "You were injured last time we played England." 

"Yeah, in the hospital and everything," Steven said. "We'll see who will win."

The energy on the pitch was different than that of the bench, in the stadium itself. Stiles wasn't at all ready for the whistle to blow when it did. The severity of the match hit him hard as he ran out, standing between the likes of Alvaro Arbeloa and Gerard Pique. Spain’s midfield was hard to get through, what with Xabi Alonso as defensive midfield with Iniesta and Xavi up front and Busquets alongside Xabi. Getting possession and keeping it was difficult to say the least, and that paired with Xabi’s lob passes that could span almost the entire pitch, Spain had England running around with their heads cut off. 

Time passed quickly. Stiles blamed Spain's quick, short passes that kept England running as they tried to play catch up. When the whistle blew at the end of the ninety minutes, Stiles wanted to collapse despite the fact that he had only been on for forty-five minutes and not the full ninety. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like for the others who had played the full match. 

They had a short break before the played the overtime thirty. Stiles did not want to have it go to another penalty shootout, and he didn't think anyone else wanted it to either. Steven's knee was hurting him, and he had a pain injection before he went out on the field. Stiles' calves felt tight, and he stretched them again as best he could before he walked back out onto the field. 

Spain were relentless as they barraged England's defense. Derek and Steven moved back, helping with keeping Spain from making more attempts on goal. Most of the action was happening in England's half and not Spain's, due to Spain keeping the possession. With a minute left on the clock, a long lob pass was sent down the pitch, towards Stiles. He knew this was his chance to keep it from going to a penalty shootout. Stiles kept the ball on the ground, and had four Spanish defenders on him in seconds. With a back kick, Stiles passed it to Wayne, who then quickly passed it to Stiles once he moved to an open space. Ramos did a slide tackle, but didn't make contact as Stiles jumped over him. He felt like he was in an action movie as he made contact with the ball, setting it up to make a shot on goal. 

Stiles glanced up at Iker Casillas, the Spanish captain and goalkeeper, to see how he was standing, and where he was in the goal. Stiles barely had time to breathe before he made the shot. There was no time as he chipped it into the corner farthest from Iker. With less than a minute left, Iker fell to the ground, his gloves empty, the ball hitting the corner of the net. 

England scored, making it 2-1. Stiles was swept up into the air as the timer ran out and the whistle blew. There was no need for stoppage time. England managed to win the World Cup and Stiles couldn't believe it. Once he was let back onto the ground, he couldn't stop screaming. He, Derek, Stevie, and the rest of the team ran to the bench, hugging everyone they possibly could as officials tried to get them together for the ceremony. First, they had to shake Spain's hands. 

Stiles traded his kit with Xabi Alonso, his idol. He didn't want to think about the fact that Xabi had asked him as they shook hands, it was too much for him to process. He ached all over, needed to sit down, but he couldn't. Stiles was given a shirt to slip on, one that said England Champions 2014 on it, but he was too sweaty to put it on just yet. He looked around for Derek, grinning when he saw him. There was so much going on, reporters on the field talking to players, some were running around the stadium hugging fans, and others were lying on the ground. 

When Stiles saw Steven, he had been crying. It was his last World Cup, and he had won it. Tears threatened to fall down Stiles' face as well as he hugged his captain, but he managed to keep them at bay. 

Eventually they were all pushed up onto a stage that had been brought out, surrounded by cameras and reporters, they all wore their new England shirts as they huddled around Steven who was a step above them. Stiles, with Derek's arm around him, looked up as he watched Sepp Blatter, the president of FIFA, hand Steven the Cup. 

Confetti burst from somewhere, Stiles didn't even know where as the crowd erupted, filling the stadium with their cheers as Steven lifted the Cup. Without thinking, Stiles turned to Derek, grabbing his head, bringing him in for a kiss. It was open-mouthed, and not at all chaste. Derek hand an arm wrapped around Stiles, living in the moment as the kiss ended with their eyes closed and noses touching. Stiles was shaken, as was Derek, as their teammates jumped and screamed around them. Stiles couldn't help but feel like he and Derek were in their own world as they kissed again. 

There wasn’t time to think, after that. Roy was there, ushering Stiles towards a reporter, while Derek was pulled to another. It was interview time before they headed to the showers. 

“Stiles, what is going through your mind right now?” They asked him. Stiles looked around him, his shoulders shrugging as he tried to think of something to say. 

“It’s unbelievable that we did it. Spain is a tough side, everyone we faced in this Cup was a difficult match. England climbed a mountain in order to win this, and I can’t believe I was a part of it, to be honest,” Stiles said as he looked at the camera. “Can I say hi to my dad? Dad, I love you and I can’t wait to come home,” Stiles said before the interviewer could even answer him. 

“We couldn’t help but count out your goals for ourselves, Stiles, and it looks like you’re up for Golden Boot, what are your thoughts on this?” They asked.

“I won’t believe it, even if they put it right in front of me,” Stiles said. “To be considered for even Young Player of the Year would be an honor, but I don’t think I deserve the Golden Boot,” he said honestly. Surely there was someone else who scored more than he had in the tournament. 

Stiles was shuffled around to another interviewer, then another before he was ushered down the tunnel and allowed to shower. The locker room was mayhem, with popped champagne bottles and players dancing and singing while wearing their underwear or towels. Stiles showered quickly, then pulled on his Champions t-shirt as he was handed a plastic flute of champagne. He drank it as he sat down, making sure to put his Alonso kit away in his bag so it wouldn’t get left behind. 

Their things were packed already, on the bus ready to go back to England. Steven was there, standing in front of Stiles with a grin on his face. Stiles stood up and hugged him. 

“I’m so proud of you, lad,” Steven said. “I saw what you did.”

“We’re ready,” Stiles said, low enough that just Steven could hear. “We’re ready for the storm.”

“You’ll be fine,” Steven assured him. “You showed the world how good you are, the both of you.” Stiles got emotional at that. He knew he’d be okay if he had people like Steven around him for support. 

Stiles had to give more interviews before they were all ushered onto the bus. Once on, he collapsed against Derek as he checked his phone. Everyone around them were phoning home, or still singing and drinking. Stiles had to plug his free ear in order to hear his father’s voicemail. Stiles called him back, practically screaming into his phone in order to talk to him. 

The airport itself was insane, full of fans screaming for autographs. They were told not to stop, to get straight onto the plane. Once on, Stiles was surprised to find reporters and cameras shoved in their faces even then. Stiles barely sat down with Derek before a camera was put in his face and a microphone put between them. 

“We couldn’t help but notice the kiss between you two during the Cup ceremony,” the interviewer said. “Was this intentional, or a heat of the moment thing?” They asked. Stiles didn’t even glance at Derek as he reached for his hand. Here it was, the truth. 

“It was a bit of both,” Stiles said as he looked at the camera. “It was definitely a heat of the moment thing, because there was no time to think. We just won the World Cup, and it felt like a natural reaction.”

“You celebrate in the most pure way you know how,” Derek added in, looking to Stiles. “And there was no other way I would have done it.” 

“Explain,” the interviewer said. “Are you two saying that you’re gay?” Stiles looked the interviewer in the eye, his face stoic at the tone the interviewer took with the question. 

“We are,” Derek said. “But that is personal, and what matters today? Is the fact that England won, and Stiles scored the winning goal.” 

“Can you elaborate more on your relationship?” They asked. 

“It’s not relevant to tonight,” Stiles said, “but we’ve been together since before the Cup.” 

Not every reporter asked about it, some avoided the topic altogether, instead talking about the match itself. They were fed alcohol and cake on the plane. No one slept the entire way back to England, riding their post-World Cup highs. 

When they landed in London, it was chaos. There wasn’t time to think as they were put on a double decker bus to parade around London. Stiles was exhausted, drunk, and overly affectionate because of the two. Steven didn’t mind Stiles hanging on him, as he was just as drunk as they waved their hands to the crowds of people that lined the streets. London was packed, and Stiles couldn’t even imagine what it must look like on an actual TV. It took what felt like hours for them to end their tour, ending up on a stage where they were all announced, by name. When Stiles’ name was called, the crowd went wild. His ears rang with the noise when he realized it was for him. Steven had the mic, and had said something about each player, his voice hoarse from talking. 

“And Stiles, our number 24. Youngest player, most valued... England wouldn’t have won without him. I am glad I got to play my last tournament with him by my side. He’ll be great for the future of England, the future of Liverpool. His career is only beginning, and I can’t wait to see what he does with it.” 

Stiles hugged Steven with tears in his eyes as he finished, unable to hold back. He joined Derek, after that, with his arms around him in front of everyone. 

Epilogue

**March 16, 2024  
Anfield Stadium  
Liverpool, UK**

After eleven years of playing professional football, there was still no fixture that got Stiles’ blood pumping more than the Derby. Liverpool versus Manchester United was the single most important fixture, and this one in particular had Stiles’ stomach in knots. 

The locker room was buzzing before the match, and as Stiles, now 29 years old, got dressed in his kit and laced his boots, he couldn’t help but think about what the day’s outcome would mean for him, depending on the way the match went. 

His disdain for United hadn’t faltered, but this fixture in particular meant more. Stiles grabbed his things, holding them in his hand as he walked over to Steven Gerrard, manager of the club. 

“You remember what we talked about,” Steven said, giving Stiles a look he knew all too well. 

“Sure thing, Gaffer,” Stiles told him. “Don’t let him win.”

“That’s right,” Steven joked. “No mercy.” 

This would be Stiles thirtieth match against United, due to Cups and League play alike. Steven had been the manager for five years running, bringing Liverpool once more into Champions League consistently since he began his second reign at Liverpool, the first being when he actually played for the team. It had been eight years since he retired, though. 

In the tunnel, Stiles stood at the front of the line, his armband still in his hand. He waited for United’s players to make their way out of the locker room. With his team behind him, Stiles checked them over. They looked different, now, with barely anyone remaining from when he first started, save for Martin Kelly, who stood directly behind him, the vice-captain. 

Eventually, United appeared, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile as Derek led them out, his own armband already around his arm. Stiles lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing as Derek stood beside him. He could hear the chanting of the Kop as they readied themselves for the match, singing songs of old, along with the new. 

“You going to kiss me with that on?” Stiles asked, pointing to Derek’s captain’s armband, his own still in his own hand. It had been a tradition, of sorts, for them in the past few years. Whenever they played each other, they kissed before they walked out onto the field. Since becoming captains, they hadn’t worn their armbands until after. 

“This feels right,” Derek said as he leaned in. The kiss was simple, chaste, but held all the meaning in the world to them. No matter what the outcome of the match, they loved each other. 

It had been nine years since they came out, right at the end of the World Cup. They paved the way for others to follow suit. The media had been split, at the time. Some deemed them ill-fitted for professional football, while others pointed out both of their making the World Cup’s Team of the Year, as well as Stiles getting the Golden Boot in his first World Cup. Two World Cups and Euro Cups later, both Stiles and Derek more than proved their worth. 

Stiles stepped back in line with his team, slipping his captain’s armband up and over his kit so it sat perfectly against his bicep. As soon as it was on, he was no longer Derek’s longtime boyfriend, but Liverpool’s captain.

That was the only way he could play against Derek. 

There had been talk, back when Stiles was first named captain under Steven Gerrard, that he was unfit for the position due to his sexuality. Steven’s simple reply to the media was this: “I played with the lad for years, and he is exactly what Liverpool is looking for in a captain.” That had been that. 

The following year, Derek was handed the armband at United. Now, the fixture had deeper meaning. The two teams came together, somehow, having their captains be in a relationship. But when the fans saw the same fervor between them, the same rivalry, they knew that the fixture had the same ferocity as before. 

Stiles and Derek shook hands, exchanging the club banner before the coin toss. When Stiles won it, he gave Derek a look. 

“United kick off first,” Stiles said. He took the goal that would have Liverpool attacking the Kopend in the second half, though.

Derek smirked at Stiles, with a slight roll of his eyes before they separated. It would be the last time they played each other, and that alone had Stiles give over the kickoff. He wanted to show Derek his gratitude, his love, in the only way he could before the match started. Derek, at the age 35, was retiring in May.

In many ways, football was a neverending sport. Season led to season, tournament to tournament. New players replaced the old, but were always remembered by the fans. This fixture would always happen, and the rivalry would continue on. 

The end wasn’t really the end at all because there would always be another match, another fixture to look forward to. As the whistle blew, Stiles set off to win.


End file.
